Vienna in Springtime
by Saphyr88
Summary: 1917, WW1. When the government refuses to listen to the Sanctuary's warnings, it's up to Magnus and Tesla to save the allies from an ancient abnormal power, threatening to end the war… and change the world forever. As if Vienna didn't come with enough distractions already! Historical-spy-thriller-adventure-drama. Rating will increase with later chapters. On-going.
1. Chapter 1 - Spear of Destiny

**Wednesday 10****th**** January, 1917, London**

London was cold, bitter. Another Christmas over and still the war dragged on. Finally, _finally_, the people at home understood what that meant. The casualties of the Somme had viciously ripped the veil of unquestioning patriotism from the popular voice. By the time Helen had returned to England last July there wasn't a single house which hadn't felt the stab of grief at the reception of a simple telegram. The papers grew sombre and less pompous, the posters more desperate sounding than before. Zepplin raids had taken away their homes, their children even; the trenches had devoured their sons, their husbands, their fathers and brothers. They may not have stood in the quagmire of a French trench but the women of England, destroying their bodies in munitions factories and nursing the sick, still knew what it was to suffer… and it tainted the air.

Magnus had been lucky. She was alive, despite insisting on remaining at the French lines long after her mission to confiscate what were now termed 'red list' abnormals from the Germans. Nor had she lost anyone close to her life – though James' protégé, Freddie, was now in hospital paralysed from the waist down.

Above all this, she still had the ear of the government and some funding too, for ensuring Britain was safe from 'abnormal threats'. Helen didn't particularly enjoy the implication there, but it was a sad fact of life that under the employ or abuse of the enemy, sometimes even without realising it, that is precisely what many of them became – a threat. Better that the Sanctuary stood between abnormals and their antagonists, gave them a chance to live. A chance so many of their soldiers had been denied.

The clock ticked gently over the mantelpiece, above the soft roar of the fire stoked beneath. A few minutes late – but he was the Prime Minister, and a new one at that. No doubt Mr Lloyd George had plenty of demands on his time ahead of the London Conference.

He had been in Rome not four days ago, meeting with the leaders of France and Italy. A trip which had delayed their meeting beyond what Magnus considered ideal – but allied war strategies were densely knotted political problems which, quite naturally, formed the focus of the PM's time. She stared at the oil painting of the King. It would all be a waste of time if he didn't listen to her: all his plans, their military stratagems, all those lives… if what they suspected actually came to pass, none of them would stand a chance.

Finally the door swept open, with an urgency typical in the homes of powerful men, to which Helen stood respectfully to attention. To her relief he came in alone, closing the door for himself and pausing to regard her amiably, a smile in the crease of his eye and the slight upturn in one corner of his mouth.

"_Dr_ Magnus," he finally strode across to shake her gloved hand, a sweep of his palm offering her the chance to reclaim her seat, "a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

The 'o's of his words were long with the Welsh inflection of his voice, giving him a warm and jovial air without even really trying. He was the sort of gentleman to put one entirely at ease, but, Magnus reminded herself, he'd claimed power with too much skill last month to be anything but an incredibly astute politician.

"And you Prime Minister," she smiled politely, retaking the proffered seat.

"Might I offer you a drink?"

"No, thank you."

He didn't miss a beat, but even so Helen could feel him watching, making an assessment of her character. Noting the neutrality of her smile, the steadiness with which she held herself in his presence. Already she'd lived too long to be phased by the illusions of power, and she had never felt particularly _intimidated_ by it in the first place. "To business then," he smiled, taking the edge of the sofa opposite her with a relaxed sigh, and leaning back with an elbow on the arm. "What is this matter of national importance, about which you have requested to speak with me?"

It wasn't annoyance, but intrigue she detected in his voice, even so, Helen was wary of how she would make her point.

"I trust, Prime Minister that you have been made aware of the organisation I represent, and the nature of our work."

"Indeed I have, and I must say, it answers a fair few questions I had for the PM when I was Chancellor about certain… _miscellaneous_ expenditures," he teased, his moustache quirking, his long forehead tipped towards her conspiratorially.

She gave a coy and cordial nod of her head, "Then you will understand the gravity of our concerns. This goes _beyond_ the Worth case," her voice nearly wavered at his name but she held fast and true, leaning in slightly and worrying her bottom lip as a prelude to her absolute sincerity. "You may not have been privy to reports from the Intelligence Division, of a discovery made last year: one which they have been rather swift to dismiss, but which, had they _our_ expertise, they might've realised to be a far greater threat."

Even with Griffin among their ranks raising vocal pleas for investigation, begging them to take it seriously, his superiors had brushed the matter aside. He'd refused to give up on it, of course, only to be warned in no uncertain terms that if he attempted to pursue the matter, become distracted from his official missions, he would be shot for desertion. It had only confirmed his decision to come straight to the Sanctuary on his first day of leave, to tell her and Watson every last detail. His concern had been palpable, explaining it in her office, showing her the sketch he'd stolen from a German dugout, and quietly relaying everything he'd over heard.

Well, his superior officers might not be in the habit of listening to their men, but Helen trusted Nigel's instincts more than few others in this world. If his gut twisted in fear at the possibility then the threat was very real.

"Claims and communications were made by German troops which suggest they are in possession of a _deadly_ abnormal artefact," she continued, "with the capacity to end the war in their favour."

To her surprise Lloyd-George made no effort to interrupt her, instead listening intently.

"We believe they are researching the application of this weapon in Vienna, where it has been housed for centuries without any understanding of its origins or purpose. To be frank, Prime Minister, we can prove it is related to an ancient abnormal species called _Sanguine Vampiris_, and that alone should be enough to engender concern."

He raised his eyebrows; fingertips tented absently together, "_Vampiris_?"

"In a word, sir: vampires. Though now extinct," bar one, she added mentally, as she always did, "they ruled over our species, and the world, for centuries. Their technology was beyond our capabilities, perhaps more advanced than even today." She paused, gesturing confidently as she explained, "If this Spearhead holds the powers that have been attributed to it, as our research indicates it very well might," she held his gaze, "you'll have something far worse than shells and bombs to fear."

His face was entirely serious, considering what she said for a long drawn-out moment. When he eventually spoke, he did so levelly, "We can hardly go in with the troops Dr Magnus, all guns ablaze."

"I understand that Prime Minister, but that is not what I am asking."

"Then what?" he challenged.

She mustered her strength, "A covert action, in Vienna, to ascertain whether the central-powers have successfully activated the weapon, and sabotage any attempt to do so."

Lloyd George gave little away, though a finger found its way to his upper lip, brushing across his moustache before swiping over his mouth. The objections he'd faced at Rome were still ringing in his ears, the first bumps of his ministry making itself known in the form of one rather objectionable field marshal in particular. He'd tried to argue for a concerted effort on the Austrian-Italian front, to no avail. Even the Italians had disagreed with the proposal. If he was seen endorsing activity of any kind, anything that might be construed as preparing the way for such an attack, he would be upsetting an _awful_ lot of people… risking not only his career, but diplomatic relations between the allies too.

His pause was too long to be a good thing, slowly crushing any optimism Helen may have held about this venture before he'd even opened his mouth.

"What do you have that's concrete, Dr Magnus?" Even as he said it, blasé as you like, he felt the pang of his own injustice: knowing full well that if he could spare so much as one resource, if he hadn't made Austria-Hungary such a sensitive topic at the conference, he might've been persuaded. It's not that he didn't believe her, her knowledge or conviction, but things are different now; he's responsible for a nation, and he can't let his own leaning towards impulsiveness endanger that for one second. "Everything you've said is theoretical: the capabilities of the artefact in question, their ability to actually deploy it usefully in the field, whether or not they are in fact researching the matter, whether they even _have_ it! You said yourself; claims and communications are all you have to go on. There's still too many what-ifs, and hear-say. I have had reports from Intelligence, and they have advised that the Germans certainly do not have weapons with the capacity for destruction on a magnitude which we ourselves cannot replicate. Indeed, that there is no indication that their military research has any bearing on this supposed artefact."

"With the greatest respect, Prime Minister," she could feel her eyebrow quirking with indignation, "abnormal research is hardly the Intelligence Division's forte – they don't know what they're looking for."

"So what should I do, doctor? Send you?"

"Yes," she challenged; the blue of her eyes sparking, "Send me and one trained operative. Get us in there, allow us to act upon our own initiative, and combat whatever it is we find. I went behind enemy lines last year, at Verdun, to eliminate the use of abnormal life forms as a weapon against allied troops. I can assure you-"

"Stop there," he sounded tired, not angry or dismissive, just weary, his hand pleading for her to silence her defence. He looked at her, as if he'd like to help, as if his hands were tied, but Helen just couldn't – wouldn't – let herself feel sympathetic towards that endearing rouse. It was in his power, all he needed to do was release Griffin into her service… but would he? No.

"I'm sorry Doctor, but we simply cannot stretch our resources any further in the Intelligence Division. We have operatives tied up absolutely everywhere to improve our planning, so we can _avoid_ the mistakes of last year. Vienna is as tightly monitored by its home spies as Berlin, Munich, Paris or London… even experienced agents fall afoul there, and as we have already agreed – a military strike of whatever form, is out of the question."

Helen's stare hardened with a note of warning, her voice somehow remaining calm as well as grave, "Sir, if you allow this to go unchecked we could be facing the deployment of a weapon we do not understand, cannot combat, and have no idea of how to control, before the year is out. Without such reconnaissance, we will be _woefully_ unprepared."

His head twisted from side to side, "Can you even explain to me how this weapon might _work_ Dr Magnus, or which bright minds our enemies have _supposedly_ employed to research the possibility?"

"That is what we want to find out, Prime Minister. We have enough to suspect-"

"This is not a good time to be risking so much for one man, or woman's, _suspicions_ Doctor, no matter how learned or eminent. Particularly when it seems more likely to be some calculation by the enemy to draw in our agents:" his hand waved dramatically upward as it did in the House of Commons, "or propaganda to inspire morale among their own troops. I certainly have no intention of _indulging_, in what might turn out to be little more than an academic endeavour, at a time such as this."

"It is hardly academic, sir, people's _lives_ are at stake." She reasoned stubbornly, her exasperation slowly starting to show, "This could change _everything_."

"Even you must appreciate just how mad you sound right now, Dr Magnus," he eyed her solidly, surprisingly resolute. "I simply cannot entertain such a notion on you, and your team's instincts alone. Please," his voice was like tea, infused with warmth, as if he wanted only what was best for everyone, "understand my position. What you ask is not a simple matter, and the reason you ask it is not something my colleagues are likely to comprehend."

She bit back the flurry of arguments, but the objection was clearly written all over her face.

"And I am afraid that counts for a great deal more than you might've considered."

The conversation was clearly over. Magnus' lips were pressed together in frustration, that oh-so-Victorian mask of civility hardening across her every feature until she might've been carved from stone. How could he wash his hands of this?

"I am sorry, Doctor," The Prime Minister stood to leave, though Magnus was too consumed to register this fact and rise to join him. "Truly, I have every respect for the work that you do and commend you for it, but I'm afraid this is a matter quite out of your purview."

She eyed him with the tilted head of a canary, about to chirp its last in the silent depths of the mine. Suddenly there was a wistful, bitter smile.

Typical British bureaucracy, she thought to herself, they just have you do _their_ dirty work and then, whenever it's time to return the favour? They leave you out in the cold. Oh, yes. Fend off whatever calamity, whatever Armageddon's heading our way, please do – just don't tell us about it, don't try for any more money, or men, or even just some form of acknowledgement for- Oh, what did it matter! She hadn't needed them before, when they'd come along offering the Sanctuary its daily bread, did she _need_ them now?

This weapon wasn't going to wait around for someone in power to start taking it seriously, and neither could they. If Mr Lloyd-George and his twinkling eyes weren't going to back them, well, it didn't really change a thing. They had to go in. They simply _had_ to be sure… with or without His Majesty's Government's blessing.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Oh yes ladies and gents, we all know where this one takes its cue from! :)

Thank you Chimera! Thank you for the Teslen-y goodness.

Magnus: Ow. What did you expect?  
Tesla: I don't know, something cooler, like The Matrix, or Vienna in springtime… Remember?

Well we will by the end of _this_ story! And we'll all know why Magnus gives him *THAT* look, and why he compares it in the same breath as the Matrix…

As cliché and hackney'd as it sounds folks, reviews really do keep me writing, and make my day besides, so please do let me know what you think! Even if you object to something – go for it dudes, I wanna write these characters as in-character as possible.

For a little background to this fic – and this chapter – please do check out 1916, it's not essential, but explains a little for anyone wondering about how Griff's ended up where he is. There's a bit of Magnus and a bit of Griffin in the trenches… so lots of action!

**DISCLAIMER**: I do not own the characters, universe or episodes of Sanctuary, though I _am_ beg-borrowing-stealing for the purposes of fan entertainment, hopeless adoration and not-for-profit exercises in writing novels. I have every respect for the writers, creators, actors and owners of Sanctuary, and will love them eternally for bringing us four years of glorious Sci-Fi television – and Tesla. :)

The image used is an amalgamation of two of Gustav Klimt's works: The Kiss and Wasserschlangen II (Water snakes, I think that translates to), with stills of Ms Tapping and Mr Young from 'For King and Country' in Season 3. I think its relevance will become apparent to you all eventually… in the mean-time – I don't own it/them, don't make money from it, just love it y'all!


	2. Chapter 2 - Preconscious

Helen's footsteps echoed off of the Sanctuary's stony floors as though it were the dead of night, and though the light was fading from the windows it was only tea time. There had been a hush about the place since the war had set in, a troubled quiet that had injured their colleagues, reduced their food supplies, filled their habitats with new arrivals, and the residents quarters with humanoid visitors seeking protection. They were doing all they could – to help the war effort, to stem the tide of abnormals being forced into the open like mice from a burning building – and this was how they repaid them?

A frustrated sigh left Magnus' lips before she could compose herself, removing her winter coat and heading directly for her study. The sound of a door closing upstairs turned her head.

"Ah, Helen," Watson pronounced from the top of the stairs, as if she was just the person he'd been looking for, "how did it-" his mouth caught up with his observations, the way she turned without looking to him directly, determinedly making for her office, "…never mind."

A knowing look passed between them as she paused on her route, her eyes stripped of all hesitation, mouth tight and gritted – the Helen which had returned to him after approximately four months in hard-fought trenches, ready to box his ears in for dragging her away. He'd have been more shocked when she'd returned, if he hadn't witnessed a preview of this attitude in the ghost of her Christmas-Yet-to-Come, so to speak, and she had forgiven him for his string-pulling, in the end. After all, it had been an emergency. They needed her _here_, where she belonged… who else could treat physiologies yet to be studied with such skill, dedication and speed? How many lives could she realistically save in the hell-hole that had become the Western Front? And in the back of her mind Helen knew he was right.

This time, at least, her ire was not aimed in his direction. "Am I to understand then that your meeting with the _Welsh Wizard_ proved fruitless?" He asked; an undercurrent of his shared exasperation meted out in his usual brand of wry civility.

With a certain inclination of her head, which said it all, she started moving again and he fell into step at her side. "Quite," she bit out, concentrating on the path her thoughts were taking as regards their next move.

He made a scoff halfway between derision and anger, "And dare I ask what the excuse was this time?"

Her hand twisted the door handle a little abruptly, "Oh the usual James…" she huffed ironically as she swooped into the office, "quite prepared to trust us when all they have to do is give us money and let a few things to slide though the administrative cracks – and yet the _minute_ any of them have to lift a _single_ finger-"

"Same old story," Watson's lips quirked ruefully, both hands brushing his jacket aside to rest on his hips.

"Precisely," she all-but-huffed, allowing herself to fall heavily into her chair.

Having government protection had been a rosy agreement, at first, but now the memory of Adam's plots were fading into the distance of time, their government 'allies' had started to take the 'unofficial' part of their arrangement a little too much to heart. There had been a progressive shift from the cooperation of that first year, to a wilful butting of heads in the last four or five. Sometimes, it was a simple argument over jurisdiction, where permissions from the government to local law enforcement had been a little slow to arrive. At other times, Magnus had been obliged to remind Number 10 that if they didn't ensure they had a ready supply of certain resources, there'd be plenty of rather hungry creatures willing to break from captivity in search of a meal. Until now, they had been able to smooth it over with a combination of Watson's political manoeuvrings, and that patented Magnus charm, but Helen had soon realised after her return from France that if they didn't do something about it, and soon, the support they'd been given heretofore could very readily be ripped from under their feet.

"I have quite a mind to remind them of just how _little_ they truly understand!" Her forehead sank onto the top of her clasped hands, elbows on the desk. She had a headache forming.

James said nothing, knowing it was just the vexation talking. They both knew she wouldn't seriously entertain the notion of threatening the Prime Minister with a resident from their Sanctuary – an action more likely to destroy their work than bolster it. Besides, right now they faced a far more pressing problem than the ignorance of government ministers.

"They denied you access to an intelligence officer…"

Her head reappeared, "Naturally."

"So Griffin's out of our reach."

"I'm afraid so," she responded, catching sight of the same passage she always did on the upper-most page of the documents on her desk. The citations indicating the very real connection between what Austrian Catholics venerated as the Holy Lance, and forgotten historians had documented as an ancient weapon turned against the vampire hoards. "I still have to try," she uttered, almost as if to herself – not that Watson would miss it.

His head turned to one side as if he hadn't quite heard her, "Sorry?"

She snapped up her head with a steely edge, as if he were already being difficult, as if his tone hadn't been neutral at all but a prelude to his long and exacting list of paternalistic objections.

"I don't see that we have any other option James, we've got to do it ourselves – I have to try."

"Why do I get the feeling you plan on doing so by _your_self, Helen?"

"Because we've got no choice."

He chuffed a laugh, "You _must_ be joking."

"Well what do you propose?"

"Helen!" He started over top of her, stopping her chaffing retort in its tracks, "You're hardly a trained spy…"

A noise at the door stilled James' lips in an instant, his ears pricking at the sound and deducing the source in quick succession.

"So I take it we're not expecting His Majesty's spies then?" Nikola drawled, idly taking up the armchair nearest the unlit fire with a good view of Helen's desk.

Slowly but surely, their gazes lingering on each other as if to warn that the argument was very far from over, the two Brits turned towards the rather indifferent inventor. Tesla's fingers tented as he studied the nature of the friction between them, cagily waiting for their response.

"You would deduce correctly," Watson was irked, not angry - yet - but making his displeasure known.

Helen caught it, deciding quickly to act as if she hadn't, "It would appear that we're on our own."

Nikola sighed, "Can I say I told you so?" She gave him an unimpressed stare, whilst James purposefully gave the floor more attention so as not to encourage him. Not that Tesla was paying attention anymore. He glanced askance, a devious smirk forming at the sudden thought, his finger dancing in the air and his leg constantly jigging over his knee as he revealed it: "Say, how about we leave one of those leechy-creatures in his bed and see if that won't convince him?"

Helen's lips pursed instantly in disapproval, and he watched with great pleasure as her expression wrestled with the measure of his sincerity and her own, more selfish, desires. It was obvious she had already considered doing the exact same thing.

"Not sure that would do the trick old chap," Watson chipped in before she had chance to chastise the errant vampire, "We're going to have to do something by ourselves – and _soon_."

Raising an eyebrow Magnus refrained from pitching in with a petty 'well at least that's something we can all agree on'. "James is right," she added with a certain coolness, which he, likewise, acknowledged with a surprised upward-jolt of an eyebrow and a twist in her direction. "I won't see Nigel risk getting caught abandoning his assignments, it's too dangerous, and we can't go any further without the facts."

"I agree," Watson added levelly, clarifying his position, "but you cannot go in alone Helen it would be _suicide_."

Nikola suddenly realised what they'd been arguing about before, immediately sitting to attention, "Alone?"

"Can you really say I'd be any _less_ in danger than I was on the Front?" she put forward tightly, as though Tesla wasn't even there.

"For goodness sake Helen the two are hardly comparable," he paused a moment, and then, "I'm coming with you."

Her splayed hands left the desk, hovering in the air as she fired back, "You cannot be serious." She scoffed, "_James_, that mechanism strapped to your chest has been needing maintenance every six months and you _still_ haven't quite worked out why."

He bristled slightly under her accurate assessment, more for the third pair of ears now privy to such private information than the challenge itself.

"I could take a look," Nikola added not-so-helpfully from the side lines, his toothy grin earning him a warning glance from Helen for taking such a cheap shot at James' ego. He simply shrugged, suddenly standing from his chair, and dropping the smirk with a slight cough to clear his throat. Enough to draw Watson's observations as he came closer, self-consciously buttoning up his jacket, "Or… failing that," he glanced at them both in quick assessment, until they were trying to work out his intention, hanging on his words, until he innocently proposed: "…I could go."

"_You_?" They shot out in unison.

It didn't deter the smirk, or the pedantic gestations which accompanied his elaboration in Watson's direction, "Well, yeah… your Austrian accent is terrible." He hung on Helen just a moment, giving her the most charming of smiles, "Yours too..."

_Incorrigible little-_

"Oh please Tesla," Watson started, "as if this wasn't just some veiled attempt to go chasing after your so-called _ancestry_."

"Hey," he snapped to the man now level with him, "it _is_ my ancestry. And what's so _wrong_ in me wanting to find out more about who I am, where I come from?"

"You _come_ from Smiljan _and_, excuse the pun, there's more at stake here than your great-vampire-grandparents." He eyed Helen meaningfully, unprepared to say so right in front of him, but silently voicing his concerns over trusting the unpredictable, overly-ambitious vampire to actually disarm the vampire technology with purportedly unlimited power.

"Yes," Nikola condescended, "but I actually have some, which, in the circumstances, might turn out to be more useful, don't you think? Not to mention… have either of you ever actually _been_ to Austria-Hungary? Or Vienna?"

He was so fixed on Watson, practically duelling each other with looks alone, that they both missed the slight aversion of Helen's eyes at the thought that she had in fact, just once… with John. Not that she'd seen much more than the inside of a ballroom before being teleported back to her room at the end of the night.

"…I didn't think so."

"Nikola has a point James," this got both of their attention, turning their heads in near-unison.

"That may be, but I hardly think it's wise…"

Nikola rolled his eyes impudently.

"To let him go alone – I agree." She smiled archly at the look on their faces; a burning consideration on one, intense interest in the other.

"_Helen_?" There was a saucy comment on the tip of Nikola's tongue, he just hadn't quite remembered how to speak yet, she was sure – and the fact she could practically see the cogs whirring made her chuckle just a little. He wasn't going to enjoy what she'd say next quite so much.

"Having Nikola on this will undoubtedly be to our advantage," she said to James, "but if his vampirism is revealed to the enemy we'll have more trouble on our hands than just a dooms-day device."

To her surprise Tesla didn't make his usual noisy objections at the insinuation that _he_ might somehow fail in something. He'd cottoned on quick, the momentary burst of chagrin morphing as he realised he quite liked the sound of where this was headed: Helen and he, alone together... for weeks, maybe months on end? Letting her make the case uninterrupted, he grinned all the while between the two of them, soaking in every last delicious moment.

The old detective's voice was unnervingly neutral, "You mean you'll go with him – make sure that doesn't happen."

She nodded once, "It does seem the most logical course. As you were so strongly advocating not two minutes ago, sending one untrained spy in alone is far from ideal…"

He raised an eyebrow at that small admission in favour of his argument, tainted though it was by the implication that sending Tesla in alone was somehow unacceptable for a reason other than his growing interest in his now-extinct species. _His_ chances of dying in this reckless, last-ditch attempt to halt their enemies were slim at least, a thought which was no doubt at the forefront of Helen's considerations as well.

She was right of course, it was the most logical resolution; though it did nothing to curb the kick of concern in his gut. His warm eyes hardened at Tesla, who was practically gloating already, until the Serbian managed to reign in his obvious enthusiasm at the prospect. Actually, he was glad she'd be going with him – God knows, for all his talents, he wouldn't want to rest the fate of the world on that man's shoulders alone!

"Very well," they both tried to hide their surprise at James' swift assent, and failed, making Watson smirk smugly in return, "just so long as the _half_-vampire doesn't go getting cold feet… or should that be cold-_er_?"

"What - discovery, intrigue… suspense…" Nikola raised a playful eyebrow before turning to Magnus, "and all in the company of a beautiful woman?"

Helen automatically rolled her eyes at what had, once upon a time, merely amounted to flattery, and nowadays felt as loaded as the revolver in her top-draw.

"I wouldn't miss this for the _world_."

Watson chuckled, clearly noting her tolerant disparagement at the now routine compliments, "Yes, and no doubt the prospect of getting your hands on some vampire technology has absolutely nothing to do with it."

"Gentlemen," Helen smiled at James' comment despite herself, but knew someone had to stop them entering into another round of childish one-up-man-ship, "if we're agreed on the matter… perhaps we should turn our attentions as to how we are going to proceed?"

* * *

**Author's Note**: And the gangs all here (almost… but we'll see to that next time).

First comment dance goes tooo… **onthecoast6**! :) Thanks dude.

**arachelle905** – wow, just, thank you so much that was the biggest compliment and such an absolute thrill to read. Talk about confidence boosting – nay, ego stroking… the sort Tesla would be proud of :D But I'm so happy you enjoyed it, and that you took the time to give such a lengthy review. I've positively beamed all day when I read it, so I hope future chapters shall not disappoint. ;)

Thanks also to to ** .****3**, and **Aslook** for your awesome encouragement, as well as you folks fave-ing and following. Can't wait to take you all on this ride. :D


	3. Chapter 3 - The Water Serpents

**London, February, 1917**

Hyde Park had seen better days. Griffin could still remember the first summer he'd visited Magnus at her father's home. The day they'd all accompanied her on a tour of every modern marvel they could find in the city and ended up here, near the Serpentine, the boathouse just in view. John had been quite keen on a swim, if he remembered right, but no one was prepared to embarrass themselves in a contest with his extensive limbs – except Helen. He smiled at the thought of John's scandalised and slightly lustful expression, James' disbelieving admonishment, the quirk of Nikola's lips as the prospect of taking up the gauntlet became so much more rewarding: and beneath it all, a startled awe at this surprisingly bold creature who had deigned to become their friend.

Those were the days: when riders trotted along the wide, straight malls, and the flowers blossomed beautifully in the muggy London haze – an idyll really. Not like the park he sat in now, exposed and windswept: unkempt beds turned over to soil to avoid the effort of planting, a rippling lake whose only use had been to collect the bodies of those who wished to die. Even the boathouse looked about ready to fall down. The neglect after two harsh winters was practically palpable and only exacerbated by the bleak, slate sky.

Nigel wasn't here for the view, however, or even to reminisce. James had managed to get another message to him though one of his Irregulars, indicating that he should be here, at precisely three in the afternoon to make the drop. He checked his pocket watch – well, it was a minute or so to by his reckoning.

Casting an eye across the panorama he tried to identify every figure. His shadows had no doubt followed him here, though he'd done a fair old job at giving them the shake – invisibility helped a little in that department. They'd been following him ever since he'd visited the Sanctuary in November, and if it hadn't have been for his abilities they might well have silenced him for that little indiscretion, as his tight-trousered boss liked to call it. To say they didn't trust him was putting it mildly… as well they shouldn't. Bloody lazy oiks. He hated them, the whole bunch. Ignorant, conniving, back-stabbing little buggers every last one – and he'd give his left arm to be back in the trench with the men of his regiment, risking life and limb in foolish offensives, making night raids into enemy trenches and drinking more mud than coffee.

If there was one thing Nigel knew, however, it was how to make the most of a bad situation, and this at least was proof that some good could come of his pernicious position. Because how else was he going to obtain first-class forgeries, troop movements and foreign transport timetables?

He really was going to owe Miss Fleming for covering his one tiny slip-up… perhaps she might agree to dinner?

"Whoever she is – I hope she can keep a secret."

Nigel snapped out of it, realising the familiar accent had come from not three feet away, and pulled a face without really meaning to. Why couldn't it have been Watson, he bemoaned inwardly, knowing precisely why even as he thought it – the minute he was seen within five yards of James or Helen they were as good as bust: all four of them. It hadn't taken long for the two Sanctuary leads to become 'persons of interest' once he'd reached out to them. Tesla, on the other hand, was just a smugly anonymous pain in the arse they had yet to be subjected to.

The pain in the arse in question hovered a moment, admiring the view as if he hadn't even noticed Griffin yet. Meanwhile Nigel put on the easy pretence that he was annoyed at the figure for blocking his line of sight – and not irked by that lucky guess as to where his thoughts had been wandering.

Eventually, after throwing a handful of crumbs onto the ground from a small paper bag and attracting the hungriest, most cantankerous looking ducks, the Serbian took a seat on the opposite end of the bench with his usual insufferable air. Nigel busied himself with keeping watch on the horizon, knowing that Nikola would have set down the coat in his arms and taken off his hat. Idly putting them down over the envelope sitting between them, and deftly hiding the package from prying eyes.

He didn't say anything more, at first, leaning back against the chair with an uncharacteristic slouch and throwing a few more crumbs for the birds to peck at. There hadn't been much time to ask precisely how, or more importantly _why_, Tesla had finally come to his senses and offered to help his friends instead of moping on about his diminished finances in some plush New York hotel. To be honest, Nigel considered himself long past the point of caring. Nikola had always been the most selfish among them, taking because nothing in his life had ever been given without strings… but he had thought, he had once _believed_, him capable of setting his own wants aside when it counted most. The last two years seemed to indicate otherwise, and then, here he was. Suspiciously throwing his lot in just as everything started to go south in the most dramatic fashion, and not a moment sooner. He'd always had a tendency towards theatrics, that was true, but ignoring an actual request for his help was just cold – especially when Nigel had never asked anything of him before, not in all the years they'd known each other. You might say the once-Chemist had learned his lesson.

The silence between them was as disturbing as it was unusual. Griffin found himself turning to take a look at him, to make sure the damn vampire was still there, which of course he was – knowing smirk and all. The birds had come closer, the bobbed heads of pigeons fighting mallards, and growing bolder as they picked their way through the scraps.

"You know it's almost meditative; watching them – pecking, flying, ruffling their feathers… not a _care_ in the world." Nikola started, drumming up the tone of a ringmaster at a circus selling people their fantasies, "The ability to go wherever they please, whenever they choose."

Nigel snorted, "Yeah right, shame they only _choose_ to stick around, get in the way and shit all over the place."

Tesla smiled, admitting only to himself that he had missed his friend's crude yet eloquent witticisms in the all-too polite world of New York society. He wasn't dense enough not to detect more than just a hint of _meaning_ in what Griffin had said. Both men cast surreptitious glances from the corner of their eyes, trying to take the other's measure without letting him on: neither succeeded.

"Speaking of birds," Nigel began, shifting to make himself more comfortable where he sat, and making another survey of the Park's visitors, "there was a little one tellin' me that you might want to take the high road." His voice was matter of fact, conversational, as if there was nothing wrong, and nothing remotely suspicious in what he was saying.

Nikola, however, knew better than that, "Really?"

He stared at him, that slack jaw of Nigel's jaunted a little in consideration, "Yeah," he said simply, "better view. Besides which, I 'ear the quacks over there are really interested in this _new treatment_ they got, though God knows where they got the money for it in this day and age. Blood money if you ask me – from top brass."

He was following the semi-coded messages all right, but still Tesla gave him a look, "Are you going to say apples and pears next, or will they figure that one out?" Griffin frowned but couldn't get a word in edgeways, "There's not another heart-beat for twenty yards – they'd need _my_ level of hearing to hear a thing you're saying."

"Wouldn't be the first time we've come across someone like that though, would it?" he murmured quietly between gritted teeth, before sighing in acknowledgement that he wasn't wrong. He couldn't see a soul all around – and why the hell _would_ anyone hang about here, on a day when London was giving the barren north a run for its money. "Look, mate, just watch yourself, alright? It's not going to be like you remember it – you might've forgotten with your head in a wine-glass but there _is_ a war on …nothin' wrong with bein' cautious once in a while."

The petulantly dismissive face Nikola pulled, as if this was all melodrama for the peanut gallery of no relevance to a genius such as himself, was more an indication of his disdain for the _way_ Griffin had said it than the sentiment. A fact Nigel figured quickly enough, despite the strong urge to clip him round the ear for being such a prick about it. He huffed, and Nikola's gaze swung to meet his, the two men, of equal temper, united in the same purpose – silently acknowledging each other's commitment to the task at hand.

"You better make sure she comes back in one piece," the invisible man said to the vampire, a little more aggressively than he had intended.

Tesla never flinched. "I intend to," he said in all seriousness, the fingers of both hands carefully placed, resting against each other on his abdomen as if they might spring out at any moment. Ready to sprout claws – though Nigel had no fear they'd be directed onto him, for all that he'd managed to strike a chord and wipe away the pretence in one fell swoop.

If nothing else, Griff thought, at least he still cared for Helen. Some days it felt like that was the only thing holding them all together anyway.

It made him pause: then why had Tesla been such an ass and ignored the letter before? Was it simply because it had been him asking, and not her, or was there something he didn't want to let on? Some secret circumstance, some trouble that he'd stirred up for himself… Nigel shook his head admonishingly. Did he really want to know, did he really _care_, when he seemed so determined to cut them out of his life? When _years_ went between them without as much as a how'd-you-do and so much happened in between.

"And if they so much as serve her bitter _tea_, well," his lips slowly turned into a hard smile aimed directly at his friend, "then we'll be sure to turn right on around and hop on the next train to England."

Griffin chuckled at the blasé comment even as it belied their very truest fears, relieved a little of the worry that filled him at the prospect of their being cut off from the Sanctuary, unable to call for help. Not that isolation in the face of disaster wasn't anything Magnus, or Tesla, or any of them hadn't faced _before_; but that didn't make it any easier heading purposefully into it.

Another batch of crumbs found their way onto the floor and Nigel watched as the birds squabbled over them like soldiers over a shell hole. "Bloody rats with wings – what are you tryin' to do anyway, fatten 'em up and lure them into becoming your very own animal minions? This ain't bloody Wonderland you know…"

"And they _would_ always find their way back – huh," he paused feigning amazement and consideration at the ridiculous thought, eying his friend with a sarcastically pointed look, "you know – that's not such a bad idea."

Nigel's burst of laughter was spontaneous. Momentarily unfettered before he remembered where they were, what they were about, and recovered behind a raised hand in case someone was watching. Pretending it was a sneeze. "You absolute nutter…" he chided, knowing full well he shouldn't be encouraging that shit-eating grin currently taking possession over every inch of Nikola's face, and finding it too difficult not to slide comfortably into their old banter like a well-worn shoe. Bloody idiot… the world would be kinda dull without him somewhere in it.

"Seriously though," the Brit broached, growing more sober as he held the Serbian's gaze, the hands in his pockets expressing whilst still entrenched inside, "shitty message-carriers aside…" the half-smile faded slowly, "we're counting on you Tesla – both of you."

One did not need to be a genius to read what was practically falling out of Nigel's eyes, the unspoken words ghosting on the tip of his tongue. _Please_, and he _was_ pleading, _don't let me down_. Don't screw this up.

As if Nikola hadn't already felt the pressure, the gravity of their task for the last month as he brutally scolded Helen's atrocious German, refreshed his Latin and ancient languages, or worked with James on the preparations for their deception. He'd barely had chance to tinker with his projects, let alone make any progress, and this was _him_ they were talking about. It's not like he slept a good eight hours every day and went running off to help every abnormal stray in trouble!

Even so, he understood… and said nothing. The bright expression of a moment ago was robbed from him, replaced by a penetrating thoughtfulness which gradually drifted to the earth.

It was all Nigel needed to know.

Silently he stood up, securing his hat and doing up his coat, when Nikola spoke.

"Good luck," he said quietly but firm nonetheless.

The tone was too neutral… Nigel knew in an instant that it was only a veneer to something more potently felt, but like any man, he chose to acknowledge it with as little fuss or show as possible. Just in case it mattered too much.

A look passed between them, solid and knowing, the barest, briefest nod of a head in recognition and thanks, before Tesla's eyes flicked down coolly, as though they'd never spoken at all.

In a moment Griffin had turned away, making for Hyde Park Corner; leaving only the thick brown envelope lodged beneath Nikola's hat.

* * *

**Author's Note**:

Yay for Griffo! Kinda short, I know, but it didn't really work with the last chapter so I separated the two. Kudos to anyone who got where I was going with Miss Fleming/why she has her name.

Not too sure we'll see the "mad man" **Sparky**, but who knows where this story will go? I don't want it to be too much like _Normandy_. Never say never though, because otherwise you end up eating your own words.

Thank you again folks for your reviews! They're so encouraging.

There may, or may not, be a longer spell before the next update thanks to RL and the fact that it's already longer than this chapter. :) But I promise you Helen and Tesla stuck on a train together... and cannot be held responsible for where _your_ mind chooses to wander. :D


	4. Chapter 4 - Moral Anxiety

**Austria, March 1917**

That package of Nigel's had proven invaluable, his intelligence even more so. Taking the _high road_ wasn't the best of ideas in an Alpine March, winter clung on well into May at these altitudes, but James had instantly seen its prudence – nay, its necessity. Neither Swiss army nor Austrian; French, Italian or German, were particularly keen on wasting half-decent troops on frost bite for the sake of monitoring a few desperate souls, forced out into the treacherous and slow routes through the heart of the mountains. Frankly it was the path of least resistance to their course, and with Nigel's hint, they'd soon worked out the highest rail route to continue operating at this time of year. Getting there however, had been a long journey indeed.

In peacetime, one could reach Zurich in twenty four hours, Vienna in probably just as many. Nowadays they had to negotiate the closed sections and border crossings, military right of way and half-functioning services. Nikola had spent most of the trip so far complaining about the tardiness and apparent laziness of the few souls remaining to hold down the fort, something Magnus had just about managed to suffer through with nothing but a condescending glare. She wasn't sure how, exactly, he thought they _could_ manage a job which had once taken double the number of men. His disposition had at least improved, once they'd reached the still-neutral and still-functioning Switzerland, and Helen had breathed a little easier at that.

Zurich itself was a beautiful city – one she'd never had occasion to visit before and which, to her great regret, she had no time to explore now. They'd passed through the Romanesque-Germanic architecture, on the edge of that wide open lake, just as the day was fading – and even at the tail-end of winter she'd felt the wonder of that dusky pink gracing the pale stone and dark rooftops, illuminating the tops of distant mountains. Unsurprisingly, Tesla had been more in awe of the electric train network making such good use of his alternating current. Magnus had to admit, they were a wonder, but hardly worth losing a day on their itinerary, as he had actually suggested.

Desperate to stop the supposed genius from sulking like a child the whole way to Austria she had dared to hint that perhaps, one day, maybe after the war, she might join him on a return visit… and they could tour the factory at MFO. The look on his face had been worth it, even excepting the teasing which had inevitably ensued. Helen had to admit, she much preferred to be laughing off such comments than enduring one of his embittered ill-humours, and at the moment that seemed all he was capable of oscillating between.

It could've been the sleeping arrangements – or lack thereof. They'd been resting on trains and station platforms so far, as per the plan, to get to their destination as quickly as possible. As though to let up the pace might somehow cause them to lose momentum, like a train up a steep incline. They dared not stop, and travelling continuously from Victoria station had not improved anyone's mood – though Nikola considered himself an absolute gentleman for having not pointed out Helen's frequent scowls, and occasional snap of temper… yet.

They'd crossed into Austria through Lichtenstein, barely raising the suspicion of the border guards – conscripts who clearly couldn't have cared less by this point, so long as they avoided the front line. She had let Tesla do all the talking, to ensure her accent wouldn't fail her at the crucial moment. A position which hadn't been as trying as she thought it might be with their cover stories, and his tendency to elaborate. He had, in fact, been rather grave – to the point where she wondered whether perhaps, crossing into what had once been his home country might not have stirred up thoughts and feelings he'd long believed disposed of. Or maybe he actually _was_ taking this more seriously than he'd let on in the comfort of the London Sanctuary, or across the endless French countryside.

Settling into the long stretch of rail taking them deeper into enemy territory, Magnus had started reading a medical text by Hans Meyer, one of Vienna's many illustrious professors. She remembered studying his discoveries on anaesthesia and tetanus quite eagerly when they had been made, and this newer research, though of markedly lesser significance, was no less brilliant. It was just such a shame that his writing style was so bloody long-winded! Those compacted words the Germans seemed so fond of made it a complete trudge, which is precisely why she'd always gotten James to translate the damn things for her in the past.

Thankfully Nikola had yet to disturb her attempt to wrap her head around it. Sequestered neatly in the seat opposite, _he_ was… _thinking_.

The last time she cast a glance in Nikola's particularly quiet direction he'd been making notes, working on a few mathematical problems for some of the projects he'd left behind. The distance didn't make much difference, he remembered every blue print, every equation, every nut and bolt. The thought of them, sat in the Sanctuary's lab waiting for him, played on his mind. In fact, after the initial excitement of their journey had lost its shine he'd been, mentally speaking, wandering back to them more and more. As if they were taunting, reminding him that he was going to be stuck half-way across Europe for what could be months, and in the meantime some bright light might, _just might_, figure it out before him.

Hence the theoretical long-distance problem-solving – it was most of the battle anyway, the theory. Something Edison had never understood or appreciated – ape that he was.

Nikola had put the notebook back inside his jacket pocket a while ago, however, and taken instead to staring, or watching, as he preferred to think of it. He had twisted himself into a dead-end of mind-numbing proportions, and it was a _fact_ that Tesla grew tired of feeling such impotency rather quickly. He needed something else to stimulate his brain, and even logging every detail of the carriage, of the woman sat in front of him, soon turned to boredom when his imagination furnished him with so many ideas as to how they _could_ be passing the time. As though sensing his attention focused upon her, Magnus momentarily lifted her eyes from the page.

He was far too amused, she noted, considering they'd not moved or said a word in the last hour. So much so that she didn't even want to _know_ what had put that stupid look on his face.

He intended to suck her into some form of discussion, of that she was soon certain, and the thought of hearing whatever shenanigans were going on in that head of his was enough to make her eyes dash back to the page in an instant. As if it was going to make any difference now – the cat was out of the bag the minute she'd laid eyes on him.

"If you frown anymore you'll get wrinkles," he teased; in German – even though they were alone in their second class carriage.

Helen eyed him disbelievingly. "Really?" She quietly challenged, her chin lifting just enough that he knew she was annoyed, could hear the thunder gathering behind that level, neutral tone. It forms a knot low in his throat, that look, eggs him on – the exact opposite of what it was designed to do – as though she were _daring_ him to continue. He had never shied away from a test, especially one of resolve.

"What are you reading anyway?" He managed, putting the sudden burst of energy in his muscles to the task of leaning over, and pushing down the page to read the top-most heading.

"Erm – hands. Off," she dismissed, swatting him away and avoiding his gaze with the pretence of continuing to read, "I can manage just fine, thank you _very_ much." She slipped a short flick of a glance at him, but it was like reading runes.

He'd been doing this a lot back in London – interfering with her translations to 'lend a hand'. She was thankful for the tutoring, she was, but every study session had left her with the unnerving sensation of being… _exposed_ somehow. A seemingly careless look, a thoughtful yet haphazard touch; small things that _felt_ more intimate than they really had a right to. Then he'd say something typically Tesla – a purposeful jibe at the weakest link in your ego, another grinding reminder of how fabulous he was. Or the moment would simply fall back into the usual parameters that had been with them ever since they met, and leave her wondering whether perhaps _she_ was the one reading more into all this than there actually ever was. It made her wary, and more than just a little insistent on the point of struggling through these heavy German tomes by herself, where she was on her own and the lay of the land shifted less.

"Are you sure?" He grinned winningly, "Academic German can be very-"

"_Yes_," It came out in that unimpressed sing-song which hummed out of her when she tried to be polite under duress, "thank you."

Nikola shrugged as harmlessly as he could manage, that smile never faltering, "If you're sure…"

She could tell this wasn't the last of it; she'd not even started reading again in the pregnant pause – her downcast eyes merely staring at the page.

"…you do realise you slipped into English a second ago?"

Her eyes snapped on him and that air-twirling pointed finger of his, her disgruntlement obvious as she closed the book with a thump in her hands. She'd completely lost where she was, couldn't even _remember_ the last paragraph – what was the bloody point?!

He, naturally enough, remained unmoved by this display, eying her meaningfully, before settling for amused and generally taking far too much pleasure in her fiery reaction.

"Actually, I think I'm done reading for the day…" she said in English, on purpose, with her crispest, most enunciated accent. There was a certain thrill in pushing that unspoken boundary on such a whim – the metaphorical equivalent to rude gesticulation. Watson would've called it recklessness, Helen considered it stress relief – after all, it's not like there was anybody around to hear them. "I find all this background noise rather _tiring_," she switched back to German, hanging on that last in a way that brilliantly emphasised her current disparagement, before turning to determinedly stare through the glass at the spectacular Alpine scenery.

It was a sight to behold. Enormous cliffs barrelling past, covered with swathes of ghost-like pines – glacier-topped mountains that appeared blue in the distance and seemed closer, nearer, than they actually were. Here on this ancient pass to Innsbruck, the whole landscape was trapped, imprisoned in crystalline snow and crisp shards of ice which split the spectrum. Light created unexpected halos where there should have been shadows, and then, just as swiftly, the path of a jagged peak, or a brief tunnel cutting through the hard rock, swallowed it up. It was stunning, even as they passed into a dense fog of low-lying cloud, and the world started to turn an eerie grey.

When Nikola took in a breath she automatically turned, responding to it before she remembered she was supposed to be ignoring him – apparently that smirk of his had never left. Before he could capitalise on having gained her attention with some sardonic remark, however, there was movement at their door.

Both of them turned to glance at the half-closed blind, noting the tell-tale pattern of a uniform as the door opened and presented an Austrian soldier, followed by a rather portly train guard.

"Excuse me sir, madam," the man smiled genuinely, nodding his head respectfully to both in turn as he stepped in, "may I see your papers."

Nikola returned the smile, barely missing a beat, promptly sitting a little straighter to open up the leather case sat next to him with those expressive fingers. That expression was one which Helen, having known him so long, would've read as a good reason to start demanding he spill the beans, but this friendly soldier had absolutely no reason to suspect the outwardly cordial grin, or the rather fine forgeries Tesla passed into his hands. It also belied the sudden stab of concern which was no doubt wrenching through him as it was her: why on earth were they conducting this kind of check on civilian trains this far inside the border? _Was_ it routine, or was it because someone knew?

The soldier paused over the Serbian surname, eying Nikola hesitantly before reading the Visa in greater detail and holding his tongue. It was probably about the point he read 'Place of birth: Reutte' and his current residence as German-speaking Zurich that his shoulder's eased up a little and his demeanour grew a little warmer.

"And yours madam?" His hardened tone still managed to cut through them.

"Oh we're together," Nikola jumped in, his finger gesturing between the two of them, "hers are at the back… along with our tickets."

Helen smiled reassuringly in corroboration, fighting the urge to fiddle or bite her lip; excruciatingly aware that the smallest indicator, the slightest hint of her guilt might be enough to trigger his suspicions. Thankfully he took her quiet nod for a pleasant shyness of character and focused his attentions on first Nikola's, and then her, papers.

The silence seemed to extend forever; long minutes in which Magnus could've sworn she gave up on breathing. As the soldier passed their tickets back to the conductor for approval the two foreigners flicked a casual glance at each other, both sensing the tension as it seemed to grow, thickly, in the air. Were they the only ones who sensed it? Was it a gut instinct providing an early warning, a subconscious recognition of the guard's negative body language, or simply their over-active imaginations?

Nikola started watching the two officials intently, looking for some reassurance from behind the guise of patiently waiting for his documents to be returned. The conductor gave the papers presented to him only a cursory glance, before promptly handing them back, freshly stamped. Completely uninvolved with his task, the man's eyes roved everywhere and anywhere, hands occasionally rubbing that rotund belly as he thought about food. Nikola had to fight back a sneer. The soldier on the other hand, a corporal by Tesla's reckoning, was alert, his bright, intelligent eyes analysing for key indicators which might mark out the enemy. Here was the diligence, the demeanour, of a man no doubt described by his teachers as _conscientious_ in any and every behavioural report.

"Ah Hamburg," he smiled brightly at Helen, "Where in Hamburg do you come from ma'm?"

Helen's heart sped at the question, and the sound was enough to make Tesla nervous.

"You know the city?" Her response was breathier than it should've been.

They watched the corporal's reaction, hyper-sensitive to every twitch of the mouth, every shift of muscle. Waiting for the moment their heart rate would floor, their guts wrench and their every fear became realised: that someone had known they were coming, or those border patrols had more brain cells than they'd given them credit for and alerted the authorities. Helen was already logging the exits, the options, the possibilities for escape in her mind's eye – playing out the very real possibility of needing to get off of the train, and out into the freezing wilderness just to survive. It all depended on what that one man said next. Only this time he wasn't stood to attention at a border crossing, he'd appeared out of nowhere.

When they'd entered Hapsburg territory they had felt fear, certainly, but they'd been prepared for it, expected it; now, despite every attempt to shrug it off, their skin itched under the scrutiny, their muscles went rigid. Helen wasn't even entirely sure that she hadn't sounded completely British just now, or outright dropped to English once again. It was so unreal.

"Well…" the Austrian wrangled good-naturedly in reply, "I passed through it once, on holiday."

He still hadn't given them back the papers. Were they about to find out that they had been caught out? Helen tried not to think – the possibilities were incalculable – yet somehow she remembered to speak and managed to bypass the lump clogging up her throat.

"I grew up in Altona."

The soldier paused a moment. The smile he was giving them suddenly feeling as forced as the one on her own face – surely he could tell she was lying? This deception just felt so… _incongruous_. How could it not show? Even after all those days James had spent with them perfecting stories they could stick to, half-lies and personas based on their own experiences to be drawn on in an instant, she still felt as if it must be obvious.

"Ah," Helen could have sighed at the sound of his voice responding so positively; "beautiful part of the city. My uncle took me on a tour down…"

"The Elbchausse?" She surprised herself, her voice growing steady, her accent holding… at least she hoped it was firmer than the wan smile she was giving.

The soldier pointed to her, papers in hand, "Exactly, yes," he chuckled, passing them back to Nikola and quite possibly jump-starting the vampire's heart in the process. "I remember it very well, well," he exhaled chirpily, casting his blue eyes back to Tesla, whose face had all-but frozen in that non-committal half-smile, that expressed so much and yet said absolutely nothing at all, "all your papers are in order." The soldier clasped his left hand behind his back with smart, militaristic precision, "Enjoy the rest of your journey to Munich sir, madam."

There was a beat, before Nikola responded belatedly, "We will," late enough that the corporal had started to turn and needed to twist around to acknowledge the "thank you," which followed.

The train conductor was already half-way to the next compartment before the soldier slipped through the narrow door. He closed it behind him with a firm shake, rattling the blind against glass, and it was as if all the air had been let back in with one gust. There was a second where all they could do, was wait for the other shoe to drop. Nikola's fingers rubbed absently against the paper, Helen noticed, as if he couldn't quite believe they'd been given back – but they had. They had pulled it off, and this was only the second of many hundreds more little tests upon their lies. At least, for now, they could breathe.

Slowly their heads turned from the door to each other, eyebrows twisted in universal relief, expressions muddled by the implications of such an unexpected challenge to their forgeries. Were they suspicious, or were the Austrians more suspicious of their countrymen than they had anticipated? With the growing rumbles of discontent from the Kingdom of Hungary, perhaps they shouldn't have been so surprised. There could well have been activists, political terrorists, on this train right alongside them. Whatever the reason for it, they shared the exact same thought: _Thank God we're _not_ going to Munich_! Suddenly the idea of crossing another border felt as though it would've been pushing their luck.

* * *

**Author's Note**: I chose not to translate everything to German (despite the fact that whenever they ditch the foreign languages in film and TV I go screaming) because, quite simply, there's going to be too much of it. If I use another language that's only, like, a sentence, then sure – I'll write it in that language, but otherwise… eh. If you're bothered, run it through Google Translate. :)

If I'm honest I hit a bit of a bump coming into this chapter, this week's been pretty disjointed, but I think I've found the rhythm now so hopefully more creative turns of phrase as we pull into this properly… already I sense this is going to be a considerably bigger and deeper story than The Iron Sea. So stick with me folks or I might never get through this marathon!

**Sparky** – You and Tesla both! Honestly, here's some soap for your dirty mind :P Now be prepared in the next chapter for even more teasing as they reach a hotel room… PS Three consecutive reviews are yours, congrats, have a cyber-cookie 'thumbs up'!

**arachelle905** – if I keep receiving such fabulously detailed reviews, cling away my friend! Thanks again.

**Ty** – good to hear from you! I'm always glad that people appreciate the use of woefully under-used characters. Especially ones with abilities and a sense of humour as awesome as Griff's


	5. Chapter 5 - The Primitive

The rest of their rail journey passed in a subdued cloud of unbidden anxieties, preying upon their all-too rational minds. The line north of Innsbruck was _the_ major route into Germany, a direct line to the heart of Bavaria, and the passengers swelled with soldiers on leave, army bureaucrats travelling wherever their orders took them, chatty German civilians returning from visits to family in Austria. It was the friendliness which took both Nikola and Helen by surprise – the way the strain of this conflict had seemingly woven people together, given them more reason to address their fellow man. Magnus could tell from the barely veiled sour twist of Tesla's face, and the sidelong rolls of eyes, that the over-friendliness was testing his patience, though something, fear perhaps, held him back from his usual capricious insults. Even inside the claustrophobic confines of this six-seat compartment they currently inhabited, he didn't let loose.

It was a fact for which she was entirely grateful, seen as though her tongue felt as if it had been woven into a damp, heavy knot making it doubly hard to form the correct pronunciation. Her inability to communicate fluidly was becoming beyond frustrating, and the minute they stepped out of that carriage at Wörgl station she sucked in the biggest inhalation of air he had _ever_ heard her take. As if she were about start expelling all the things that had annoyed and overwhelmed her since they had last been alone.

Nikola inclined his head with a hint of a smile, a barely raised brow. He could tell from the way her eyes had widened, head twisted, that she'd found it as tricky as he had. Being Magnus, however, all she did was exhale measuredly, reasoning herself back into a sense of calm, and allowing that unnerving serenity she possessed to flow back into her skin.

It was a mask, of course. He knew, because he felt the same – as if every eye was on them, as if the guard who'd checked their papers might glance out of a window and realise they were not intending to travel where their tickets had been destined. Experience told Nikola the sensation would pass, eventually, but in the meantime there was nothing but the constant fear that this was how they were going to live from now on: prey to every doubt and uncertainty.

That's why he didn't say a word about that expulsion of pressure from her lungs, or even eye her teasingly to call her out on the fear in her gut. As if to do so would be to acknowledge the fact that he too was feeling the strain.

They left the perimeter of the station, heading into the junction-town and finding a… less than brilliant hotel. The first bed they'd seen in days and it had been such a rough journey on them both that Tesla had taken the lone chair without a word – in complaint or innuendo – merely telling her that he'd keep watch.

She'd looked at him soulfully, knowing the stress was staring to leave its mark without needing to ask, restraining the urge to tell him there was no need to be a gentleman about this and to get in beside her. Whether it was the prospect of the outrageous flirting such a proposition might've induced, the fact that he was actually doing the proper thing without even _expecting_ some kind of acknowledgement or reward in return, or the pure selfish desire to have the bed all to herself, Magnus wasn't sure. Either way, she kept her mouth solemnly shut, and settled into the barely adequate sheets in an attempt to sleep, whilst Nikola sat, arms crossed against his chest in the seat facing the door, with his jacket meticulously placed over the back.

She didn't toss and turn in the night, but the pace of her pulse was never soothing. Every so often Nikola would find himself drifting off in a state of exhaustion, to feel the sudden quickening of the lulling drum in his head wake him out of it. As the night progressed he could feel his parched mouth drying to a husk, his weary body crying out with little twinges in the muscles. He pushed the fingers of his closed fist against his lips in concentration, as if it would push away the feeling in his mouth, or the quick appraisal of his sharp, hungry eyes upon Helen's jugular whenever her heartbeat changed. The subtle shake of his arm, however, betrayed him.

At 2:15 in the morning he finally relented. Getting up from the chair as sluggishly and bent out of shape as the old man he should have been, Nikola dug out the small case which contained his medication. The vials were full enough to last nearly two months, and while he was confident they could make more once they reached Vienna, he wasn't _meant_ to need this for another twenty four hours. That grated on him. Even as he entertained himself by imagining Helen's reaction as he had told her it was all her fault for looking – not to mention, smelling – so delectable as she slept. The fact that it was partially true would've only made her blushing repudiation that much more delectable.

Smiling at the thought he prepared the injection, glad that she wasn't awake to watch him do this. Not that she hadn't seen it all before, but there was something about other people regarding him as… powerless, which he absolutely hated, and in the face of an unchecked blood lust _that_ was precisely what he became.

Laying back into the seat he twisted his head to look at her again, the rise and fall of the covers in the dim light of the dying fire, her blonde curls tucked into a mid-length braid, leaving her concerned features more discernable.

As the medication hit his blood stream he closed his eyes, that unmistakable fire – a pale mirror of the first injection they'd taken – rushing through him and reminding his body what life felt like. He was so tired his fangs broke out in answer to it, his eyesight momentarily improving as his transformation took hold and then slid, quietly, back into his body. It wasn't always this way. When he was absorbed in something else, or focused on fighting it back he could resist that side of him which would invariably attempt to shake free, just a little, and he had to admit, when he had no reason to resist, he enjoyed letting it do precisely that.

In the morning she had noted the bright gloss in his eyes, the indomitable perkiness he had somehow gained by _sitting_ in that god-awful seat, all night, whilst _she_ had woken up at the crack of dawn, feeling almost worse than before. Her frown at his cheery good morning became an outright glare at the smell of coffee, and was not appeased until she was presented with some semblance of tea. At which point her mind finally put the puzzle together, and realised the source of his revitalisation.

To say she was jealous of his ability to simply add blood and go, as it were, was a massive understatement, but she did try so hard not to let on. An attempt Nikola was not fooled by in the slightest and which kept him grinningly positive right up to the point when – wrapped up in their warmest layers – they'd finally hit the freezing, east-bound road.

This way they avoided crossing the border, but it also meant taking buses and asking for rides from passers-by when public transport failed them which, being in the middle of the mountains, turned out to be most of the time. The inordinate amount of contact with unwashed farmers and their goods along this snaking road gave Nikola a permanent scowl of discomfort which had, at first, made Helen twist with a snigger she somehow managed to contain. But it soon wore thin. There were only so many times you could wryly rebuff someone's complaints with good humour before it stopped being so funny, and it was about the point they reached Saalfelden, that she'd huffed at him with the level instruction not to bother opening his mouth if he had nothing new to add to his litany of self-pity.

Naturally, he had taken this as a challenge. For the rest of their journey to Bischofshofen the poor soul kindly providing them with transportation from Saalfelden was left wondering what on earth was going on! The farmer even actually jumped into their banter as if to defend Magnus… only to kick them out onto the road five minutes later for daring to insult his prize-winning goats. It was a snark for which Helen had glowered at Tesla for a good long hour as they trudged passed the majestic Hochkönig, effectively turning an hour's car ride into a three hour trek because no one in the next village was available to help! Honestly, he was like a kitten with a ball of string, swiping at things for no good reason except his own amusement. Helen told him as much which, contrary to her intention, had brought out the widest grin imaginable, and made her groan in despair. He was going to drive her mad.

Luckily for them both, when they reached Mühlbach am Hochkönig they found a copper miner who needed to get to Bischofshofen before the end of the day and he offered them a ride. Helen didn't need to bat her eyelashes, exactly, but it was obvious he found her quite the treat – which effectively put a stopper in the rather less sprightly Tesla's mouth the rest of the way there, as he took to keeping a close eye on the stranger.

Several hours behind schedule they had missed any hope of catching a train to Saltzburg in time to meet a connection to Vienna. So they found another primitive room in yet another conveniently situated but not so conveniently fitted hotel for the night. At least they had a washbasin and a fire to keep them warm. The single room was a necessity – and they'd discussed this even before leaving London. It was an expense they had been prepared to meet, but not one they'd planned on blowing their funds on until they could get at the money waiting for them in Vienna. Something Watson had asked their Swiss ally, a personal friend of his, to provide for them through a wire.

Again, they used doubly-false names at the desk – this was hardly the most proper of arrangements, and to top it off, this time Nikola performed no such acts of chivalry as he had in Wörgl. No sooner had they gotten through the door had he fallen, instantaneously, onto the bed with a sigh, sodden coat and all.

"Er, _excuse me_," Helen instantly complained in her best impression of an all-too English mother hen, hands going to her hips and all, "kindly get off of my clean sheets this very instant – you're still dirty."

Tesla groaned, half-complying by raising his torso and paying her damnably attractive angry glare absolutely no attention whatsoever, "You think these sheets will be properly clean? Helen… naivety really doesn't suit you."

She wrinkled her nose at the thought of barely-washed linens, "Even so, you're making them a damn site dirtier." She put a knee on the bed to lean across and, with the most impish grin, promptly rolled him off the side.

"Hey!" he only half let her do it, the other half had been too tired and surprised to put up a fight.

"If I recall you once told me I could take your bed whenever I wanted…" she quirked an eyebrow at him haughtily, effectively cutting whatever he was about to say dead in its tracks, as he scrambled back up with his hands on the edge of the flat and woebegone mattress.

He choked, just about managing to hold back the: '_with you in it_!' he desperately wanted to retort with but sensing, just as immediately, that such an admission would soon turn against him. It cut too close to the truth – hell, it _was_ the truth. Not such a good idea to create an 'atmosphere' between them when they'd be relying on each other for an indefinite spell in enemy territory. Helen would, at best, laugh it off, and at worst, get snappy with him, neither of which were fatal to their relationship, yet still, some vestige of prudence told him that _going there_ was a trade of witticisms he would ultimately regret.

"Yeah?" he managed in a fluster, looking wildly outmanoeuvred, which made her grin a little wider, "Really?" he recovered a little, "I take it back – there aren't any chairs in here except that crooked thing that looks like it walked out of a poem by Edgar Allan Poe…" He gestured irritably at the corner, where the hard wooden dining chair which had seen better years, sat in front of what constituted the vanity, "or a dungeon, whatever, it's _clearly_ an instrument of torture."

Magnus supposed it did look rather uncomfortable, but she still wasn't ready to ease up on him, "We've got plenty of pillows," she posited archly, crossing her arms, "you can sleep on the floor."

"_Helen_, stop being so cruel."

"Floor."

"Aw come on," he started, his fingertips rising towards each other as they bounced with his uncontainable energy, "would it really-"

"Well what can I say Nikola?" she shifted off the bed, "A _gentleman_ wouldn't have so much as dreamt of proposing-"

"Oh _please_," He drawled, pulling a sour expression, "spare me the lecture, it's too cold." She chuckled as he turned to sit on the floor with the bed behind him, then suddenly swung back with a thought, "Besides," a little grin cheered the corners of his mouth, "we're meant to be engaged remember?"

"Only in the minds of the people of Austria-Hungary Nikola," she pointed out dryly as she rooted though her things, an amused lilt finding its way into her voice, "And we wouldn't want to draw attention to ourselves by causing a scandal now, would we?"

He groaned, "But the _floor_?"

Nightwear in hand she eyed him, "Not all of us can take a booster shot and be instantly energised the next day, or heal chilblains as soon as get them."

He watched her duck behind the screen on the far-side of the room from him, his mind whirring, and only slightly derailed by the sight of her clothes on the top of the divider as she stripped.

"You've been holding that against me _all_ day – haven't you?" He shook his head lightly in admonishment, "Helen. I'm disappointed," Behind the modesty shield Helen paused, stifling a laugh behind her hand with her nightdress still half on. She had absolutely no intention of vindicating his suspicions, "you know – where's your sense of justice?"

"It left about the point you told Herr Huber that he couldn't have an opinion," she jumped in, returning to his line of sight with a robe wrapped tight around her, "because he 'loved his mangy goats just a little too much to be sane'."

He held her no-nonsense gaze for just a moment, taking in the sight of her with a slightly cheeky glint. Then she turned, and an unexpected sigh drifted from him as she started about washing her face, "Well _fine_. I guess I'll have to suffer through another night of snoring anyway, might as well make it worse by being on the floor…"

Helen didn't stop, but she hesitated in what she was doing for the barest moment, and Nikola didn't even need to look up from his fingers to hear that. She wasn't certain whether or not she did snore in her sleep – no one had ever told her, either way. More than that, she was insecure about the prospect of in fact _being_ a snorer.

His smirk grew as she determined to keep quiet, and avoid a discussion on her potentially embarrassing habits, but he wasn't going to let her off that lightly. Not when she was suggesting he spend the night on the cold, hard, dirty-er floor.

"Just pass me some cotton wool from your medical-bag and I'll make myself some ear plugs this time…" he jeered, "Then I might at least stop my ear drums _reverberating_."

She made a sound of disbelief into the towel she was currently using to dry her face, "Liar." She arched her eyebrow at him as she pulled back the sheets, "If I snored you wouldn't even want to _be_ in the same bed."

Tesla watched her as she climbed in: she was too adamant to be sure of herself, and so he waited, waited for the cracks to show as she tucked herself in. Her eyes flicked to the side – there it was, the uncertainty consuming her thoughts. Settled in with her back to him Nikola stretched out from his uncomfortable position, a little surprised by how much his body complained at having to move but shrugging it off brusquely. He let his playful accusation linger, refusing to ease her mind by admitting it was all a rouse, and moved round the bed removing his heavy coat and jacket. As he got to Helen's side, and the washstand, he snuck a look out of the corner of his eye. She was still wide awake and, back turned to her, he grinned widely, undoing his waistcoat, then his shirt.

Realising he was undressing she studiously ignored him, and stared at the base of the screen right in front of her, tracing the faint outline of the carved decoration. She wasn't even tempted to look… and if she did his ego would only inflate exponentially which was precisely the last thing she needed.

The water was warm against Nikola's already cold skin, clearly boiled not so very long ago, and he enjoyed the feeling of being clean – well, at least in his upper body. He hadn't really bothered in Wörgl, the basin had looked suspect, and besides they'd been too strung out to indulge in anything so civilised. But as he had no intention of spending the night on the floor, he felt that tonight it was justified, and he _really_ needed to wash off the remains of eau du farmyard – just to stay sane. The towel was scratchy and thread-bare, damp slightly from Helen's use of it, but it got the worst off before a chill set in.

As he dug through his case in Helen's peripherals, she couldn't contain her curiosity, flicking her gaze at him just as he pulled a clean shirt over his head. Her lips pushed against each other momentarily, swallowing as the lower half of his torso slipped out of sight beneath crisp, pale cotton. It had been long enough since she'd seen a man so undressed that it could've been anyone's trim figure, and she would've salivated at remembrances of having her body worshiped, and running hands over the texture of another person's skin. She wasn't even really thinking about it, the reaction was physical, a blush which slowly crept upon her from deep inside and spilled into her pores.

By the time he had the shirt past his eyeballs she had already averted her eyes, conscious of the dangers lingering in such thoughts when they regarded a friend – and one she wouldn't be able to escape from for many weeks to come.

Unable to close her eyes and find some peace with her body still fascinated by the prospect of a little nudity like some naïve adolescent, she sighed irritably. Raising her arm in despair, before slamming down to the covers, she gave up an "Alright!"

Nikola stilled instantly, unable to completely squash his delight at the suspicion that she was about to relent. Helen however, wasn't even looking at him.

"You can stay _above_ the sheets… seen as though you've already soiled them."

She met the steady look he was giving her only when he didn't immediately comment on this little victory, and was pleased by the gratefulness that lay beneath the almost pedantic expression. "Well _finally_," he gestured as if explaining a personal gripe, and then his tone quietened, "she comes to her senses."

The lulling sound hit parts of Helen's brain which _really_ didn't need any more stimulation tonight, not to mention the twisted grin which blossomed as he coyly twisted away. She rolled out a long-suffering sigh in response and tucked herself deeper beneath the fabric which shielded her, "Uhuh." A lone hand jutted out of the covers as though to punctuate an afterthought, "Just – don't go getting any ideas."

Ignoring the finger-wagging he snapped onto the bed beside her, with somewhat graceful aplomb. Back razor straight he looked up at the ceiling, that stupid winning smile of his practically leeching out of every fibre of his being. _Dear Lord._

Helen wondered, briefly, whether he always slept like that, on his back… as though he were in a grave. Oh how he would hate that comparison; but her mind wandered swiftly, fading her smile a little as she considered and realised, she couldn't _recall_ ever seeing him sleep differently. Not that she'd seen him sleep all that much… except when he was a patient. Hazily, growing heavy with sleep, she shifted onto her side facing away from him again. She was too tired to keep poking fun anyway, and it had been an exceedingly _long_ day.

Someone shifted behind her, just as she could feel herself drifting off.

"Oh, and Helen…" he whispered slightly, almost sheepishly.

"Mmhmm," she mumbled in reply.

"You don't, by the way... Snore, that is."

Even half-way asleep she managed to raise her right hand and whack him, she didn't even need to aim.

"Ow." He eyed the hand for a moment, momentarily considering snatching it away and laying a kiss upon her knuckles just to set her in a spin. "You're abusive in the bedroom."

She groaned instantly at the innuendo, "Nikola." She groused against the pillow, "Sleep. **Now**."

He couldn't, not right away, not with her soft, warm body contentedly breathing beside him, but he shut up anyway, his hands placed determinedly on the planes of his stomach, and that great big smile on his face.

* * *

**Author's Note**:

He he he… aw they're so sweet!

Man, the scope of this story's so huuuuge compared to Iron Sea – I feel like telling them to stop flirting and hurry up getting to Vienna Gorram it, but nooooo… when there's sleeping arrangements involved, you just have to let the insanity (or should that be innuendo?) fly. Well I promise we _will_ get to that wonderful city next chapter.

Thanks for the reviews guys - you have absolutely no idea how stoked I am that you managed to feel the tension in that train! You are awesome sauce for letting me know.


	6. Chapter 6 - Civilisation

**Vienna, March 1917**

Mid-afternoon the following day saw their engine pull into Wien Westbanhof; the rhythmic churn of its pistons slowing to a long drawn out hiss of steam, as it slid to a halt along the platform. The breaks squeaked only lightly on the well-kept train, the carriages gently coming to rest for a brief respite, before embarking on the return journey. Guards called out for the last stop, all change, as the doors flung outward, gasping for air. People were soon pouring onto the wide platform like minnows in a stream, soldiers quick-marching as though it were a training exercise, mothers with children and toddlers in their arms spilling as they struggled to keep them together.

The busiest people soon darted past the slow-moving families and travellers such as themselves, laden with luggage. Nikola stood, bag hoisted on one shoulder, suitcase in his hand, vaguely aware of the fact that Helen needed a moment. His slate eyes modifying the mental image he had made last time he was here, noting the changes to the restaurants and lounges which lined the extravagantly tall roman arches. They felt less alive, somehow, than before. The light through the windows no longer rippled with swathes of richly clothed women in hats, swimming like goldfish in decorative bowls. The paintwork on the walls was fading, untouched, and where you might've glimpsed at a baby-blue sky between the ironwork of the once-decorative ceiling – now only smoke-blackened windows.

Clearly even this grand dame of a station had fallen afoul of the shortage in ready labour since the outbreak of war. A slight sigh – Helen's – turned his attention back to her. She was eying him with unvoiced irritation, though he couldn't quite figure out why, and well aware of this ignorance, Magnus merely shook her head.

Quickly orienting herself, getting her bearings, Helen clutched a little tighter to her bags. They'd travelled light, so as to avoid bringing items which might seem foreign, clothes which might single them out. Even so, she had enough in her large carpet bag to be a bother, and her medical bag's catch had come loose at the most inconvenient moment. It was only as she took stock of their location, the cavernous space drawing her head heavenwards, that Nikola, all-too belatedly, understood that she might've been expecting his help. Probably only an acknowledgement that she might _need_ some assistance though: he couldn't imagine she'd have said anything but no if he'd actually asked.

Either way, it was redundant now. Tesla decided to ignore it as firmly as the slight, niggling embarrassment at having been so inattentive – a last lingering vestige of his upbringing, he supposed. His pre-Oxford self would've been quite ashamed at such ill manners towards someone he held in such esteem, but it was a different century, a different world... and he was a different man.

"I'll go ask for the best place to find a hotel," she alerted him, quickly taking charge, as usual.

Not so very long ago she would've turned to Nikola or James, or Nigel, with a polite but firm request that _they_ do so, on her behalf; but ten years, and more than one violent dive into the unknown without them, seemed to have flourished into a fierce independence.

The quick smile on Tesla's face caught her by surprise – the sort which had, once upon a time, made his moustache twitch – and gave her more than one reason to pause.

"No need for that," he sighed, stepping confidently closer and watching her from the corner of his eye as though he were about to share a very exciting secret, "I know the perfect place."

A little voice in Helen's head said it was better if _she_ did the choosing, before they ended up running hotel debts into the thousands like he had in Manhattan, but she didn't get so much as a word in before Mr Conspiracy was heading for the exit, brimming with an almost infectious anticipation which only made her wonder what he had up his sleeve.

Already several strides ahead, he threw a brief, testing glance behind him – clearly relishing the intrigue. Her interest slipped into a kind of guarded suspicion, eyes narrowing: whatever he had in mind – it had better be good.

0 0

To Tesla's great disappointment there wasn't a taxi-cab in sight at the front of the station, in fact… they weren't anywhere to be seen. The cars had been requisitioned for the war effort, tires taken from electric ones too, leaving only a few enterprising old men with carts to pick up those individuals who _didn't_ have a government car waiting for them. So they had taken the tram, Tesla hanging at the railings on the back despite the light mist of rain, in order to avoid even the slightest bodily contact with the other passengers.

After several days of rough and ready travel, his revulsion towards dirty, germ-ridden people occupying his personal space had flared up, in a way it rarely had since he'd learned to embrace his vampirism. The very thought of it was starting to make him almost physically uncomfortable. Helen, however, had chalked this aloofness up to his insufferable disdain for all humanity and merely pressed her lips together disapprovingly, before pointedly taking up the seat nearest the door. With a brief, polite smile to her neighbour, she had stacked her bags in the limited space about her person, and only then could she really take in her surroundings.

The wheels rolled out along the tracks with the slight _sch-ing_ of metal, pulling away from the station with enough hum and clatter to easily drown the few car engines outside the windows, and the distant peep of a train whistle. Further into the carriage a toddler squealed in delight, its mother holding gently onto their chubby forearm to keep them in check but it wasn't busy. Despite that burst of noise, the other, sober occupants remained largely hushed.

Outside, too, was quiet, quieter than Tesla remembered it at any rate. Magnus wouldn't have been able to tell the difference, but even for mid-afternoon there were far fewer automobiles on the road, more men in uniforms, the women noticeable for the distinct lack of an escort of some variety. The wealthy ones were dressed in much plainer clothes, and then there were the army of women in uniforms of their own – nurses on bikes, women ready to serve in soup kitchens and factories, to do their bit. All in all, it was a scene that wouldn't have seemed out of place in the West End of dear old London right about now. The only difference was the distinctly European way the trees, just starting to bud, were lining the Straβe, and the gothic type on the road signs.

It was a shame, he thought to himself, watching a couple of white-haired intellectuals in hats and coats, attempting to stave off the last of the winter bite in the air as they dashed across the tram lines. He wished he'd taken the time to show Magnus around back in '06 when the city was at its height: a stiflingly traditional society eagerly embracing a new age of technology and science, new thought, engineering and the arts, flourishing alongside each other hand in hand. It's not like he _couldn't_ have invited anyone either, he'd only been visiting at a conference, and he'd taken half a week to revisit the Danube's most prestigious capital.

It had changed since then, as it had done the time before that, but this was most definitely for the worse.

The twenty minute ride was over sooner than either of them had anticipated. Magnus had been staring out of the window to her right, near where Tesla stood, so that he had needed only to twist around and catch her eye, for her to understand that this was their stop: on the Ringstraβe, as it met the long avenue of Schwartzenbergstraβe into the heart of the city.

As they stepped off, Helen gave him a wide look, "You want to stay here? On the Ringstraβe?"

The tone of her voice made it quite clear she thought the notion absurd, and the look he gave her did nothing to refute her suspicions that he was _actually_ heading for the palatial building on the corner. It screamed wealth and power, with its tall triptych of grand arches and elegant Gründerzeit façade, overlooking the tree-lined ring which encircled the Old Town.

"You _cannot_ be serious?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, slowing down as though he was about to provide her with some kind of alternative, "Well…" he was far too entertained for this to be some kind of compromise, "I thought about the Grand Hotel, but last time I stayed there they put me in this really _tiny_ room…"

She stopped to a dead halt, determined to make her point, "Nikola, we can't _afford_ to indulge you-"

He sighed, with an impatient twist of his neck which soon swung back to face her, "Come on, you don't think they'll be happy for the extra business?" he smiled, "Trust me _Helena_, they won't be charging half as much as they did five years ago."

"_Nikola_…" she started dragging out his name with the usual sternness, before her eyes widened with a bolt of realisation at the name he'd used, "-us" but he'd already noticed. She carried on, as though she _hadn't_ forgotten to use the Germanic variant of his name, her lips pursing at the smarmy, knowing grin he was directing her way.

They could've literally blown their cover – anyone could be walking past, someone they might be dealing with, day in and day out, and they didn't want to give them so much as a subliminal hint that they weren't precisely who they claimed to be. She had to start getting used to addressing him by their false identities, at least in public… and fast. "_Fine_," she quietly argued, watching the passers-by and assessing the damage, before making sure, with just a look, that he understood this was not up for negotiation, "but if they're over our budget, we're _not_ staying."

She had the unnerving suspicion he wasn't going to so much pay attention to that, as try to widen the parameters.

"Fine," he nodded briefly, confidently, extending a hand in the direction of the hotel as though she _couldn't_ see it with her own two bloody eyes, "right this way my lady."

She rolled her eyes, going ahead of him and approaching the hotel where two door men stood to attention. God only knew what they'd made of that brief discussion, or the scowl currently written all over her face – probably marking it up to another marital disagreement on their doorstep. Surely even at such an exclusive hotel they must see their fair share of those? Perhaps more, even. Her back went rigid with annoyance at the thought of them being taken for another warring romance.

"_Relax_ my dear," Tesla murmured cheekily in ear-shot of all and sundry, prompting her to spin caustically back on him as he played up to their cover, and enjoyed every bloody minute of it, "you were always complaining that I don't treat you enough…" her eyes narrowed to dagger tips at that unrelenting leer, until she sensed her back was about to meet the revolving door, and turned about, "I thought you'd be more enthusiastic."

Great, Helen grunted in unladylike frustration whilst pushing across the threshold, no prizes for what the staff's first impressions of their newest lodgers were going to be. God only knew what looks were passing behind her back right now.

The Hotel Imperial certainly lived up to its grandiose title though. Magnus paused in the doorway, taking in the gorgeous marble floor, all pink-orange and black, reflecting the bright light of an electric chandelier toward the stuccoed, limoncello walls. A wide balcony on the mezzanine extended between two grand columns on the far side, where a uniformed guest strolled by, and down below, the cherry panelling which extended to the front desk was polished within an inch of its life. Attending to this opulent domain and staffing reception, were two exacting-looking servants of the old guard: men born, like them, in the middle of the last century, with neat white whiskers.

Following her inside Nikola was grinning unassumingly at her expression: caught somewhere between appreciation, amazement and concern that they really shouldn't even be entertaining the thought of being _here_, amongst generals and civil servants, captains of industry and wealthy widows.

Catching her lightly by the elbow, Nikola gently pulled Magnus not, as she might've preferred, towards the front desk but to the left side of the room. She tried to give him a look, but by the time they'd come to a stop he was already leaning too close.

"Just stay here a moment," he whispered closely, and – to her great alarm – in English. It didn't matter that his lips were practically in her ear, or that he'd manoeuvred her head toward the wall so that her wide eyes went unnoticed. It was such a stupid, careless thing to do, and the reckless grin he immediately flashed was less than confidence inspiring. What the bloody hell did he think he was doing?

She was forming the words to ask, to redress this unnervingly blasé attitude he was giving her and then, as he glanced toward the employees, she realised what that look had been _for_. How him whispering in her ear must have appeared to the spectators – intimate sweet nothings of a less than proper nature. Glaring at him she wasn't sure what vexed her more: that he was entertained by the fact, that so childish a thing had set her completely on edge, or that he'd toyed with the risk of being overheard just to stump her into a momentary silence.

"And let you book us a single room again?" she managed in German, a little slow to start than she would've liked – but she could blame that on the anger flashing through her body and wrangling her features into sleek planes of flint. She scoffed harshly, leaning intimidatingly across and measuredly widening her eyes at him, a clear warning that he was going to regret this later: "I don't think so."

God he loved it when she got aggressive, something they'd all seen a lot more of in the last few months. She'd always been _feisty_, but it was like that time they'd all-but had Worth cornered and he'd slipped away again… good Lord he'd never seen her so violent – frustrated, yet determined, all at once, barking orders at them, taking no quarter. Not to mention laying into old Johnny personally, which had given Nikola quite the kick. To say he liked to see that supressed darkness in her rise out and take control was an understatement, even more so when he was the cause of it. It was an inexorable force he just couldn't seem to resist.

_That_ smirk on his face… God, Helen just about managed to stop herself from smacking him, and as a result she most definitely had a headache coming on.

"Much as I would just _love_ to spend another night in bed with you," he replied quietly, gesturing with his lapel-positioned hands and earning another embittered scoff as she crossed her arms – the perfect picture of a disgruntled beaux – he drew in, "we need to observe the staff and guests," he explained, entirely too close, yet never actually touching, tickling her rain-damp skin with his breath, "so we have a better idea of how things work around here…"

Sliding her eyes away from their corner she realised the reason behind the madness, the logic of what he was asking her to do. From here the door, desk, and wide open doors to the salon ahead were all in view. It was the best place to see what was coming, who was coming, and why – whilst whoever booked the room had their back turned. It still didn't change the fact that he was playing up to all this like a five year old complaining that the graze on their knee was life-threatening.

He pulled away only enough to assess the expression on her face, and enjoy the outright suspicion levelled at him through narrowed eyes and tightly pressed lips.

"Hmmm," she considered, "and why don't I _entirely_ believe you."

It was rhetorical, and they both knew it.

"I promise I'll get two rooms," his lips widened wolfishly – on what thought only he could know: Magnus was sure she didn't want to find out – before finally stepping out of her space. Really, it was almost as if he knew he was running the risk of a fist slamming into his nose. "Cross my heart," he even made the sign above his chest, "and hope to _not_ die."

Her weariness was starting to take its toll. Nikola was being his usual obnoxiously contrary self, and she was far too tired, far too hungry, far too sticky from their travels to feel much like a human being right now – so she cut her losses and stopped arguing. She was in desperate need of a nice long bath, a soothing cup of Earl Grey, and a painkiller or three. So why the hell shouldn't she take the plushest room in the whole damn city?! For tonight at least, the thought was not unwelcome.

Taking her disapproving silence for complicity or some form of dogged acceptance, Tesla set his bag next to hers, taking the case and all their papers, to procure them a living space.

The moment there wasn't even the slightest chance he might see her, Magnus watched him go; marking the terribly muddied tail of his coat and smirking slightly at the ridiculousness of all this. Two dirty urchins requesting a room in one of the most prestigious hotels in all Vienna… it just wasn't in them not to make an entrance, was it?

The hotel was just stunning; a little too much for their cover even if they did find that Nikola was right and the rooms _had_ been cut in price because of the war. Middle bourgeoisie heiress and prodigious intellectual or no, this felt just a little _too_ upscale, a little too conservative in… no, that wasn't the word she was looking for – she meant _conspicuous_. Not that Tesla had ever been anything except precisely that. Even when he'd been a shy and awkward student there had always been something which would invariably single him out from the crowd.

Why was it they had thought bringing him along might be a good idea again?

Helen sighed, casting her eyes upon the meagre pools of people milling around, starting to pay greater attention – as the wayward vampire had suggested. It was a sound idea, to have one of them keep watch from far enough away that they could see any impending threats, identify the subtle summoning of colleagues at the suspicion of foul play – but what Magnus could see gave little cause for concern.

The clientele was a little different to what one might've expected in peacetime, certainly. The holidaymakers were gone, the young bachelors too, and the only frivolous girl she saw was being escorted demurely by her mother to the elevators. Indeed, the foyer was unnervingly quiet. The few guests who passed her by tended to be as old as their money, or clad in some variety of uniform. She supposed the hotel hosted some high-up military personnel, nobility and generals, all-but free of charge, on behalf of the nation… a fact which made the choice all the more pertinent, really.

Here they weren't just close to their target, but ideally placed to see more, hear more, learn more, than perhaps any spy currently behind enemy lines. It was rather clever really – dangerous, riskier than the original plan, but clever – not that she was about to concede that to Tesla's face. Especially when his hair-brained scheme had piled on more pressure than their task had already possessed. No mean feat when you were living behind enemy lines and looking for a weapon built by some of the most dangerous abnormals in history.

Noticing the numbers of staff were surprisingly slim, Helen made a quick tally of them in her head. The most obviously absent were the bell boys, who were usually everywhere in these places – running around on some errand or other between assisting guests with their luggage. She saw one, just one, and he was exceptionally young. It had been a great many years, by Helen's reckoning, since bell boys had lived up to their name quite so effectively, but then… all their twenty-something colleagues were out _there_, fighting half-way up some Macedonian mountain or Ukrainian field, settling old territorial scores whilst their German allies took on the world. Who else was left when all those eager lads could volunteer for the bloodshed at seventeen? She couldn't even remember _being_ seventeen sometimes.

Her eyes travelled back to the desk where Nikola was stood, glancing back to her cockily, with a hand on his hip and his coat swept to one side. She got the inexorable sensation that he was up to his usual tricks: little embellishments here and there for his own amusement. She gave him a cautionary look, before the receptionist glanced up from the log to follow his new guest's gaze and the obvious object of their conversation. Immediately her face flipped, like a switch, to a friendly – if slightly harassed – smile.

She should have known that he'd take every opportunity to make this playing at being a couple more awkward than it already was. Anything to unsettle her, watch her composure slip so he could make fun of her later, and still. Still there was this latent concern, stirring in her gut; that _somewhere_ in these knots of suggestion and mischief he kept throwing her way was a much deeper truth.

Helen pushed at the consideration automatically, relegating it to the back of her mind, like she always did, whenever they spent far too much time alone together. She was good at it, compartmentalising, dismissing small items, little details as nothing more than cabin fever, a symptom of over-analysis.

Too many days on the road, with no one but each other for company, she rationalised; surely that was enough to drive anyone to distraction?

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Holy moly this one really kicked my butt. I wanted to update on Easter Weekend but blargh! Anyways… I'm so glad Watson's not with them, he'd be a total Debbie-downer in this situation – ever the voice of reason in the group. Helen is, I think, a little more partial to bending the rules, enjoying the finer things, and upping the ante, than she'd ever want people to realise!

**JanSuch** – thanks for the comments! The flirting will definitely continue this is Tesla we're talking about.

**Rose** – Thank you for such praise, it makes me bubble with glee when people think I'm staying true to character, hope you continue to enjoy. I will occasionally require prompting to update… but only occasionally, I promise.


	7. Chapter 7 - Methodology

On the third floor – _why was she not surprised?_ – the bell boy deftly unlocked a door for them.

"So I was thinking…" Tesla began brightly, having been kind enough to only subject her to his smug grin and remain silent for most of the way up.

He hung by the door as Helen followed the boy, taking in all 360 degrees whilst he busily deposited her bags and placed her keys on the sideboard.

"…a little light refreshment and then perhaps an orientation around town…"

The young man nodded respectfully towards Helen and started to leave, prompting her to return to Tesla, who was still talking.

"…before dinne-"

"_Or_" her eyes widened sardonically, "we _could_ enjoy a moment to _ourselves_ and meet for dinner at say… eight o'clock?"

It took a beat for him to process the proposition, to weigh out the tone of her voice and mirror the slight incline of her head. A short smirk wormed its way onto his face, but it was as guarded as the spread of his palm and the shrug of his shoulders, "Sure, we could do that, but wouldn't you rather-"

"Excellent," she cut in breezily, as sharp as a knife, before dragging on her words: "I… will… see you at dinner."

He started to pass comment, not that Helen noticed as she promptly shut the door, leaving him a little agape.

The minute it closed she felt her shoulders come down from their hard set somewhere near her ears, and sighed. At last, a moment's peace! Not to mention the reaction she was no doubt getting from the man on the other side of the door. She smiled in approval, locking it, just to discourage any hopeful rally that might attempt to draw her out, and turned primly towards the bathroom for that long awaited bath.

Finding himself facing nothing but a wooden door, it was less the abrupt dismissal – he'd kinda been expecting that – than the fifteen year old still hovering in his peripherals, which stiffened Nikola's spine. He shrugged out the annoyance as best he could, giving a sigh that was trying too hard to be whimsical, and twisting all-too sharply on the junior staff member awaiting him.

"Well," he said with an airy nonchalance he didn't entirely feel, "I suppose the Hofburg will still be there tomorrow," his smile was barbed, an uneasy indicator that if the boy didn't hurry up and get on with it he'd start being mean towards indiscriminate targets.

The bell boy didn't say a word, or even pull a face. Whether it was disinterest, or discretion, Tesla didn't really know or care, but it certainly helped when brushing off his temporary loss of face. He was soon being shown to the adjoining room, or suite, really. Yes, of course he got them two separate rooms – he wasn't an idiot.

They were meant to be fiancés, ergo, not married yet, and last he checked not even the most liberal feminist thought it was okay to be _seen_ sharing a room, much less a bed, with one's prospective husband. Especially when they were travelling together un-chaperoned, and God their own mothers would've been shocked at the mere thought! Times had certainly changed, but not by all that much. So while it was quite acceptable for Nikola to escort Helen from place to place alone these days, the minute they were out of public view any longer than five minutes tongues would invariably start wagging. Now, Nikola might not have cared a great deal for social mores, particularly ones employing such flawed logic, but 'Nicolaus Mandić' probably did, and 'Helena Max' certainly would. More importantly, they had to establish a life for themselves amongst people who definitely did care – if only because it was expected. _The done thing,_ as they might've termed it in Britain.

Tipping the boy generously enough for such a time of austerity, he threw him a meaningful look, hoping he'd get the picture. After all, you never knew when you might need a dumb, loyal fellow, intuitive enough to know when to keep his mouth shut. He took the money and bowed out, reminding him that they could call for a maid to unpack for them, and leaving Tesla to his thoughts.

The dusky peach and green combination wasn't really to his taste, he'd have preferred blue, but at nearly a third of their usual price he wasn't going to start complaining. It was, after all, the Hotel Imperial. There wasn't going to be _any_ question over the cleanliness of these linens.

Nikola shrugged off the dripping winter coat, glad to be rid of it, and hung it in the little entranceway. He took a quick tour whilst pulling off his jacket, checking the layout of the suite, and the view from the windows. The item of clothing was absolutely filthy, just like everything else he was wearing. He didn't even bother hanging it up or folding it neatly, simply starting to form a pile of laundry in the bedroom which, with the doors wide open, melded seamlessly into the sitting area. The huge space felt a little too exposed for Tesla's taste, but a desk with a view, a wine list to die for, what wasn't to love?

He was half-way through unbuttoning his waistcoat, with every intention of taking a bath, when the third door in the sitting room swung open with a somewhat aggressive sweep. He stopped entirely, watching with amusement as Helen put a hand to her hip, in the middle of their adjoining door.

"And why, exactly, is this at all necessary?" she deadpanned, throwing her free hand about in annoyance at the unexpected portal into his domain. "Oh," she scoffed, almost as an afterthought, "and I see you've taken the bigger room for yourself… funny, there I was, thinking chivalry was dead!"

He shrugged with enough decency to look just a little sheepish, but not enough to lose the spark in his eyes, "Well if the sitting area was in _your_ room I'd never get to use it – would I?"

Reprimanding him with that tilted glare of hers and exasperated, stiff upper lip she inhaled steadily. Momentarily closing her eyes as she sought to recover some of her composure, "And the door?" she questioned finally, "Really Nikola…" her stern expression transmogrified into something quite alluring on that little drop of intrigue, "voyeurism doesn't suit you."

His eyes widened in disbelief at the almost libidinous teasing coming from _her_ mouth for once. For the second time today he wasn't quite sure how to respond, and she revelled in the hesitation as though silence were the sound of success.

"I had absolutely no intention of peeping through your keyhole when I booked our rooms..." he smirked, eyes lighting up, "…but now that you mention it."

"Dear Lord!"

Tesla grinned infuriatingly at her, but he could read the signs and she was fast reaching the end of her over-tired tether. "My intentions were entirely honourable," he claimed, earning another derisory snort as he continued to undo his waistcoat, "I simply thought it would be the safer option, you know? At least this way if one of us is in trouble we'll have more options than the front door… and the window."

She thought about it for a second from this new perspective, quick eyes reassessing the undesired thoroughfare briefly, before staring through to her erstwhile friend with none of her curiosity diminished. To be honest, she was amazed that he had even contemplated such a dire situation – much less its solution. She knew him well enough to know when he was somewhat levelling with her, and though it might not be the whole truth, she believed him. Well, believed that such an emergency had been at least one of his considerations. It still didn't mean she was all that happy about the thought of him being able to wander in unannounced on one of his many incalculable whims. Or bother her in the middle of the night with his latest eureka moment.

Nikola watched the thoughts swim mysteriously in her expression, feigning indifference to an outcome which he was, in fact, studying meticulously. Gauging her reaction to see how she would accept this innovation in their living arrangements and wondering, predominately, whether she was going to even the playing field now… or leave it hanging over his head to have the satisfaction of getting her own-back later on.

Opening the door a little wider, Helen quickly peered behind to his side of it, finding the key hanging on a ribbon on the handle – just as hers had been. A sudden smugness overcame her, a look which gave a triumphant "Ha!" without saying a word, as she grabbed for the offending article.

"Ah," she verbalised, "I think _this_ will probably be the _safer option_," she parroted, the words laced with a sly knowing irony that prickled his skin and made him pay attention, "you know…" she scrunched up her shoulders and nose in tandem, "at least then if I _want_ some privacy, I can actually _have_ some."

Before he could blink she'd shut the door on him, locking it from her side and leaving him key-less.

"Gee thanks!" Tesla groused good-humouredly at the closed entranceway, starting to undo his tie, "Guess I'll just _break in case of emergency then_!"

When she didn't respond, purposefully ignored him, he merely shook his head mockingly. Oh Helen, Helen, Helen. The fact that she'd taken the key at all said volumes.

0 0

The lighting in the Imperial's restaurant was a little softer than it might've been, had there been more candles at the tables. The electric wall-lights, too strong in comparison, glanced off the dark wooden panelling with a deep lustre which stole illumination from the interior of the room, where – much to Helen's disdain – they had been seated. She'd have preferred to have her back to a wall. Not that she didn't think Tesla wouldn't be equally concerned, or paying just as much attention to her blind spot as she was his, but she hadn't gotten this far in life by leaving her flanks exposed and open to attack. It made her sit straighter, so she had full awareness of her peripheries, and ever so slightly stiff in the neck every time she heard someone behind her. Only Nikola's unperturbed disposition kept her from constantly turning her head to see who it was coming through the kitchen door... and the fact that he would tease her relentlessly if he realised she was struggling at all.

"Well, top marks for atmosphere and all," he breathed, continuing to twist his fork in his meat, "but this is… _underwhelming_." Nikola screwed up his face in disappointment.

The dim light, however 'romantic', did little to disguise the fact that the food was a pale shade of its former, glorious reputation. A half-decent soup, it seemed, was still within their grasp, though it tasted a little lifeless. The entrée too had clearly suffered from the disappearance of good chefs, and good meat – the accompanying vegetables overcooked and stringy. God, he could've gotten better food in Harlem. Impoverished mothers always seemed to find the most inventive ways to make crap food taste better.

Nikola had never had much of an appetite for food to start with, let alone since the metamorphosis which had brought out his dormant traits. Now that his body required a very different method of nutritional intake, he wasn't in the habit of subjecting his taste buds to anything so uninspiring without _very_ good reason – and right now, trying to make a show of just how not-vampire he was didn't classify.

Across the table Helen was smiling gently in understanding. She couldn't deny the all-too-accurate assessment of the cooking which was, to her mind, trying too hard to _look_ like the haute cuisine it clearly no longer was, rather than attempting to regain even a semblance of flavour. Appearances, however, were everything to those at the top, as many of the Imperial's guests were, and to be honest, after three months of rations in the beleaguered French trenches last year she had determined never to complain about food again. In fact, compared to the dry, meagre, dirt-filled stews and biscuits of those weeks, _this_ was positively tasty.

One of the waitresses walked by – that was another thing she'd noticed had changed. Granted she hadn't really been in a hotel, much less one of this standing, since the war had begun, but it wasn't until she had seen a woman offer them a table, and bring them a menu, that she'd even realised it was such a novelty. She had literally never been to such a place and been served by a woman: and she _still_ couldn't get over her surprise that she had never even noticed that before.

Keeping his eye on the girl until he was sure she wouldn't be offering to top up their wine – the one thing Nikola hadn't expressed an immediate repugnance towards, and about the only thing that retained its pre-war standards – he continued his critique. "I don't think I've had food _this_ bad since the last time I was in Budapest."

He had complained about _that_ an awful lot too at the time, during his brief stopover in London on his way home: the hotel from hell as he'd put it, if she recalled. It was after one of his bouts of continental lecturing – an activity which tended to indicate an ever-shrinking bank balance… or a need for funds for some exorbitantly expensive experiment – he'd been positively full of stories, including tales of Vienna. What motivated him to go, exactly, was a topic he never failed to be unusually quiet about, and, with him breezing in and out like a whirlwind, she almost always forgot to ask.

With an eye on whoever might be near enough to hear she spoke, very quietly, as though it might somehow encourage him to be more subtle, "Well Nicolaus…" she raised an eyebrow, taking another bite and clearing her mouth, "there _is_ a war on."

"Yeah," he sighed, "I'll be glad when they can't use that as an excuse anymore."

Just so long as it's not because we fail, she mused internally, with a meaningful shift of her brow.

As Nikola continued to savour the exorbitantly expensive wine – God only knew how she was going to stop him draining a bottle of the stuff every single night – Helen found herself thankful, once again, for the money that had been waiting for them at the telegram office. If she knew Tesla, which of course, she did, this was going to be a very expensive trip. Saving or no saving.

Soon after locking the door between their rooms she had ventured out alone, to secure their finances before the end of the working day. She had put the money away immediately, into a bank account in _her_ name. It was Sanctuary money, after all, and it made more sense with their cover – the heiress, the woman of independent means. Moreover, to her pleasant surprise, she found the conversation with the bank manager refreshingly easy.

Finally she felt as though she were hitting her stride; the German more at home in her head, the cover story oddly comfortable as she crested this new wave of confidence. The large sum of money had helped, no doubt, to smooth the transaction and make the man a little blind, perhaps, to any faults but still, it was the most at ease she had felt with all of this since they'd left England.

Afterwards she had orientated _herself_ about town, taking in the sights until twilight set in full – then, and only then, had she ventured back. God only knew what Tesla had been up to all afternoon, left to his own devices!

"I trust you kept yourself busy while I was out?" she enquired innocently, as a wife might enquire of a husband how his day had gone over an evening meal.

Or at least, that's what came to mind, as he watched her continue, stubbornly, through her plate. "Well I telephoned Professor Hauler."

Helen looked at him with interest, hopeful that he'd continue before she finished her mouthful and had to ask. Which he did: but only just as she managed to clear her palate.

"Let him know that we'd arrived. He's invited me to meet him at the University tomorrow."

She watched him turn his glass on the table by its stem, studying the sloshing liquid as it slowly spun on its own axis.

"He sounds… keen," she supplied.

Nikola's eyes drifted back to hers, the colour of introspective storm clouds. They could say precious little here, in the open, but there was an awful lot swimming beneath those small exchanges of words. Both of them wanting to exposit on what this might mean for them, for their mission, for the chance of putting an end to this weapon on which they had yet to find any detailed information. For the moment, their hands were effectively tied: or was that 'mouths sewn'?

They regarded each other in complete synchronisation of thought. The one thing they couldn't discuss, the only thing on their minds now that they were actually _here_. The frustrated pause grew, into a long, taut moment that felt as real as the metal cutlery at their figners, until Tesla couldn't bear it anymore.

"I vote we skip desert," he fidgeted, coming across more solemn than such a glib comment had probably intended.

She only smiled knowingly, a look which made him shift in his seat and the corner of his mouth turn upwards; as she raised her brow, and her glass, to take another mouthful of wine.

0 0

Tesla's suite was almost a direct mirror to hers, Helen realised before he closed the door to his bedroom in an almost modest gesture that took her rather off guard. Only Nikola could be so brazen about things one minute, and the next so curiously contrite – she half-wondered whether he'd done it simply to hide something from view. Dirty laundry, perhaps? Or mathematical scrawls for another invention of mass destruction? One could never know.

Amused at the thought she made a contented sound, lightly shaking her head, and taking up a place on the couch near the modest fireplace set into the inside wall. No sooner had she settled than she found a brandy glass entering her line of sight on the end of his arm. She'd drunk quite enough already really, but she didn't say no – far from it – accepting the drink with an appreciative sound, and taking the fine glassware to her lips.

"Mmm, thank you."

He took the seat next to her with a smirk, one leg over the other so his foot was suspended in near-constant motion, "Well, you'll need it to wash away the taste… or lack thereof."

She leaned back comfortably into the corner of the couch, smile growing as much at the sensation of her already wine-warmed cheeks as his continued disparagement of the available catering.

With the curtains closed, a good fire ablaze, one could've _almost_ shut one's eyes and believed you were home… in the Sanctuary. No doubt James was keeping himself extra busy all those miles away, Helen mused, growing pensive as she stared into space. He always did when he was worried. After John he'd solved crime after crime, started compiling a compendium on known abnormals, analysing the toxicology of the plants her father had brought back from Bhalasaam, and _still_ had time to keep tabs on her, whilst simultaneously hunting the Ripper down at every and any turn.

She understood the urge, all too well, the fear that you'll stop and won't start again, the way in which inactivity drove you mad with silence. Still, she worried for him. It's not like there was anyone left back home who'd stand up to him, and demand he take a rest.

"You know, when I left New York they were all threatening to get rid of it…"

She snapped out of her reverie, to give him a confused expression.

"…wine, brandy, whisky… even champagne."

She chuckled at the half-mocking emphasis on that last one, noting the pointed absence of beer, larger and spirits in his list of drinks up for prohibition. "How ever will you survive should they succeed?" she teased.

He ignored the sarcasm, "I know," he deadpanned, "I'd have to move to… _Canada_." He pulled a face, regarding his drink with mock seriousness, "Hmm. No. I'll just follow your example and start stockpiling a cellar worthy of a winery."

Making a sound halfway between a 'humph' and a giggle, she smiled, "I don't think you'd be able to keep up with your own appetite Nikola." She took a sip of her drink; delighting in the raised brow of feigned shock he was directing convivially towards her, then the short shrug all-but-admitting that she was right.

For the first time in days Helen could feel every muscle in her body just start to … _relax_. They could've been in New York, at the Waldorf-Astoria, or at home in London, or even that hotel in Cape Town when they were chasing Worth around the globe, and Tesla had swooped into her room baring a South African wine for what he'd dubbed 'an experiment in taste'. At the time she'd been fairly ticked off – they had a whole day of tracking to look forward to – but half-way through the bottle she started to realise he'd been trying to calm her down, cheer her up, unwind the knots that had formed on her forehead.

It had been a while, things had been busy, there was a war on, but she always enjoyed it when they could just take the time to sit on a sofa, with a bottle of red – or brandy in this case – and talk. She hadn't even realised it was something that she missed.

"I found a café today, on my travels," she began; keen to discuss this now, while her head was still slightly clear.

Nikola snorted instantly, fidgeting with his jacket as he leaned back into his seat, "Helen – its Vienna…"

"…and I overheard something which might be of interest," she proclaimed before he could get in another snarky comment. Taking a sip of her drink, and drawing out the moment so that she knew she had his attention, "The gentlemen there were discussing another café with a strong reputation for intellectuals, with new and strange ideas. Sounds like a good place to start I think – don't you?"

He tilted his head in thorough consideration, "What's the name?"

"Café Landtmann," she elaborated, "the men I was listening to were actually passing comment on the Revolution, in Russia. They seemed to think Austria had been close to her own Socialist revolution, what with the Russian leaders having spent the last ten years '_spreading their poison here_', as they called it."

"Hmm, what a literary turn of phrase," he noted dryly.

Helen hummed in agreement, "Yes. Well, I should think we're more likely to find tongues wagging about this sort of radical research at the heart of radical society – even if its talk of destroying it before it's used against them. Sounds like a good place to start, anyway… and it's somewhere _Helena Max_ can legitimately spend her time without raising too much suspicion."

He didn't nod in agreement but there was a smile growing in the corner of his mouth, then he looked at her, obviously pleased with whatever witty repartee he'd come up with; "And enjoy the Viennoiserie."

"That's an added bonus," she chuckled.

"Don't eat too much Helen, wouldn't want to ruin that _breath_-taking figure of yours."

He was joking, there wasn't a serious syllable in it at all, and still the choice of adjective, the intonation, made her body react. She laughed it off, "You're presuming, of course, that they'll be worth eating… what with the rationing."

"God, they can't make pastry as disgusting as dinner can they?" he leaned his head back, "Is that even possible?"

She shrugged, with that coy twinkle in her cobalt eyes, and he sighed dramatically; a note of lethargy in it that had crept upon him without even realising it.

"So." He recapped, "You're going to stuff your face and drink far too much coffee with the idle intelligencia…"

"Er," she raised her eyebrow in complaint, "I have absolutely no intention of drinking _any_ coffee, thank you very much."

He smirked at that, "While I'll be being bored to tears in the dusty halls of the Philological and Cultural Department." His eyes shift in his head to focus on her, as she drew up a little straighter.

"I take it Professor Hauler is a traditionalist then?"

He made a sound in his throat close to a grunt, "An academic of the old guard."

They regarded each other, understanding the implication – just like Oxford. More hoops to jump through, more humourless greying professors to tip-toe around and stop oneself from correcting even when you knew they were wrong. God only knew how difficult it would be to get them to open up about the translations made on the Spear, and the scientific research to which it was no doubt being subjected.

"Well, you never know, he might turn out to be absolutely fascinating," she teased.

He rolled his eyes, "Oh yeah, sure, just like one of your lectures?"

She looked like an affronted school teacher for all of five seconds, before cooling off slightly from the surprise. He was worried. "It will be fine Nikola. They wouldn't have invited someone from Switzerland, much less one of Serbian descent, if they weren't already convinced that they needed you… and the interview being scheduled so quickly – I think we can safely say they've taken the bait."

He sighed again, standing up from his seat as though the movement might wake him up a little. The weariness was starting in his brain and seeping out into his bones, exacerbated by the enormity of what lay before them. Tomorrow was first contact. Their first real step into the deep and murky waters of this conspiracy, and they were on their own. Sure, they'd been preparing for it for weeks; they'd quite literally had Sherlock Holmes and a master of invisibility assisting them in creating the perfect plan. Still, this was the reality. The two of them in a foreign land, surrounded, alone, and though he'd been in this position before, somehow it felt more dangerous with her here. Or maybe it was the nature of the mission, the consequences of failure, the weapon, hanging over their heads, which filled him with this inordinate trepidation alongside the long-awaited rush of excitement?

"If our cover hasn't already been blown," he said plainly, detached like any good scientist should be – trying to push all those unhelpful thoughts aside.

Staring at the flames and settling his glass on the mantelpiece he checked his pocket watch against the clock. When he glanced at Helen, that perfect mask of arrogance restored, she was studying him with open reassurance. The only thing missing was the gentle press of her hand reaching up to rest on his arm, but instead she was clutching onto her glass with the nerves which she too was locking away.

"Who knew being conversant in dead languages would be so useful?" he quipped.

* * *

**Author's Note**:

Sorry Canada! I love you! But the thought of making a Canadian actor say that just made me giggle, so I couldn't resist… even though Jonathan Young is never going to read these lines. :( Only in my dreams.

Thanks to Rose for your enthusiasm, Sparky-She-Demon for your never-ending encouragement, and Ty… dude that comment made me so happy, because it makes me feel like I'm achieving what I want to achieve and that is awesome.

Sorry for the delay - I will probably be saying that a lot as work's stressing me out and I've been shooting around the country to see my mates :) but I will try my best my lovelies, and an encouraging comment will always push me to get more done.

Next time... more history nuggets as Tesla ventures into the University alone. :)


	8. Chapter 8 - Sophistic Practices

In the piercing morning light of a new day the Ringstraβe was still a magnificent sight. The buildings lining the avenue were bright in the sun, the shadows keeping a bitter chill to the ground which made the walk brisk. There were some pesky clouds stringing across the sky, but after the drab weather of England, and the frigid, low-lying mist which had clung to the mountains, these bursts of sunshine made Nikola smile. Winter had held onto Europe with a death-grip this year – it was high time for a change. Indeed, he almost made a detour into the Volksgarten or Rathauspark just to sit, and enjoy the birds singing in the trees… but his appointment was pressing.

Even the very prospect of it had given him that sudden burst of exuberance which typically surfaced whenever some revelatory idea unexpectedly materialised in his mind. He could feel the extra motion in his step, his fingers fidgeting as he walked as though he were plucking strings: a heap of nervous energy escaping like steam from a kettle, before he came under the scrutiny of those who might tie two thoughts together.

It was a good kind of nerves – the sort which sent a jolt of electricity through his skin and made him feel alive. Like the start of a thunderstorm, or the first test of a new invention. He was ready for this.

Approaching a major junction, Heinrich von Ferstel's neo-renaissance palace to learning emerged like a Roman Temple crossed with a French Opera house. _Versaille meets the Vatican, by way of Vienna_; Tesla smirked at the novel alliteration in his head, studying the building with more attention to the details. Entrances, exits, windows, doors on the Eastern end duly noted in a brief pause across the street.

A streak of sunlight caught the façade until the pale stone illuminated – the pebble-green of the roof mocking the still-bare maple and sycamores lining its front which should, by now, have sprouted to compliment it with a smattering of fresh leaves. The building was, perhaps, a little grubbier around the edges than the last time he approached it. Smoke and gas were rarely kind to monuments, but aside from the dirt worn into her corners, the apparent wrinkles as it were, the University building was still as magnificent as ever.

Taking the steps at a pace Nikola passed a handful of lecturers but not a student in sight. With Good Friday just over a week away, the Easter break had already begun, and with the war there were no conferences to keep the campus alive. Everywhere was as calm as an untouched pool, the un-heated air of the entrance hall disturbed by very little. No rampant discussion, or debate – not even the gentle clip and clop of shoes… it was unnerving to say the least.

Moving swiftly through he flashed an exacting glance at the brunette receptionist, keeping an eye on him as though he might turn to her for help at any moment. After their telephone call yesterday Tesla had purposefully memorised Professor Hauler's directions to his office, so as to avoid being the hapless newcomer in need of assistance. Before the week was through he wanted to appear as much a part of the scenery as any other professor, and you didn't achieve _that_ by making the staff remember you for such a simple question as the location of your own faculty.

As it happened, Nikola had only ventured inside this building once or twice in his entire life, for the sort of conference which now appeared conspicuously absent from the university's programme. He had never been inside the warren of offices which lined the rectangular shell of the building. He was, however, familiar with the arcade which surrounded the inner-courtyard, and so made straight for the door to the North staircase with the same easy step as someone who did it every day.

Up the impressive staircase Nikola turned left, down the monochrome corridor – which wasn't nearly as dark and dusty as he'd thought it would be. It reminded him more of the cold efficacy of a bank, than anything: full of greying moneyed men deciding the futures of bright young hopefuls naively requesting their validation.

The office for the Philologisch-Kulturwissenschaftlichen Fakultӓt was the tenth door to the right, a solid wooden barrier without any welcoming window. It sat slightly ajar, as if to compromise on its unfriendly appearance, but Nikola knocked anyway, before pushing it further open. There, behind an officious-looking desk, sat a short buxom blonde who might as well have been on a poster attracting tourists to the Austrian Alps: bearing beer and bratwurst in her _tracht_. Nikola blinked at the near-comical sight, repressing the urge to make the comparison aloud and, consequently, unable to think of anything else for a good thirty seconds. His eyebrows rose of their own volition as he smiled crookedly, an expression which might've made Helen wary of whatever he was about to say, but which the secretary, having no other point of reference, naively accepted as polite amiability.

"Good morning," he managed with some charm as he removed his hat, "I have an appointment with Professor Hauler?"

It never hurt to be courteous in these situations, grease the wheels, so to speak, though the secretary appeared to have a sour disposition – despite her 'Willkommen in Österreich' looks. "Name please?"

"Mr Mandić."

She glanced suspiciously at the Serbian name, quickly remembering who he was and covering her own prejudices by averting her Arian gaze. "One moment please," even as she stood, making for the other door in the room, she didn't cast so much as a momentary glance his way. Her plump fist knocked sharply on the door with Teutonic efficiency – three axe-like strikes, then a pause, and then, a "Yes?" intoned dully from the other side of the door.

"Professor?" her reply was unexpectedly bright after the brush-off she had just given Nikola. She waited patiently, ear near to the door for a moment as though awaiting some kind of signal that she may enter. If it hadn't been for his vampire hearing, Tesla might not have heard the answering three taps of a pen-end on the desk beyond – a subtle marker that the occupant had finished recording his thoughts.

The girl pushed the door open, sliding her bulk, with practiced ease, into Hauler's office. As soon as she had slipped away, Nikola glanced around the room and took note of the space properly: bookcases, shelves and filing cabinets lining the walls until they deprived the space of all air. She hadn't even offered him a seat as he waited, he realised dully, listening in to the brief, hushed murmurings emanating from their position. Not that the lone chair pressed against the wall next to the entrance looked particularly appealing, but still… the girl had clearly skipped any study of manners in whatever education had qualified her for this position. She looked to be a bit disorganised on the administrative side too, the filing system clearly spiralling out of control across her desk and on the tops of cabinets. Just looking at it was starting to make Nikola antsy. He let out a sigh – clearly you just couldn't find the staff these days.

The secretary returned in the same hushed, dour manner in which she had left, picking her way back to her desk and taking her seat without so much as a look at him. Indeed, she didn't appear to have any intention of addressing him whatsoever.

Annoyed, and probably showing it, Tesla had just about opened his mouth to ask her, in the snarkiest way possible, what the verdict had been – when the professor himself swept through the door. A robust man of fifty-eight, the first thing one would ever notice about Hauler was his height. He could've given old Johnny a run for his money in that department, Nikola thought with a smirk, though Hauler carried it with a hunch which was likely a permanent habit. What with the balding head, he reminded Nikola somewhat of a vulture, with the same bleached skin of the carrion on which he must no doubt feed.

"Mr Mandić," Hauler greeted cordially. A warm smile soon eradicated, and replaced by a hard edge in the corner of his crinkled eyes which the glasses, perched on the end of his nose, did nothing to melt. He reached for Nikola's hand – a move Tesla had been prepared for and still disliked intensely – shaking it with the vigour of a man with more strength than he had ever been called upon to use. "Good to see you finally here."

"Thank you Professor," Nikola paused a little guardedly, catching any false flatteries he might've engineered for the purposes of winning him over. Here was a man unaccustomed to lingering on pleasures and luxuries, a utilitarian, more at home with business and discipline. So he settled on something which meant a great deal more: "It's good to be home."

The professor chuckled momentarily with all the abruptness of breaking glass, "Of course." He hummed to himself, the low sound carrying on into his speech without interruption, "This way sir." He motioned with a steady hand for Tesla to approach, going in ahead and leaving him to follow, "Let us get to know one another a little better."

For some reason the words slid a weight into Nikola's gut. He clasped his hands reassuringly behind his back, as though to ward away the feeling, and cast one last glimpse at the secretary. Sure enough, she was watching – or had been, before he'd looked. Curiosity or concern, it didn't matter, he could have done _without_ the nosy, bullish puppy at his mark's door – but no one had ever said this would be easy.

Hauler's office was almost perfectly square, and they entered opposite the dark mahogany desk which took up a good thirty per cent of the space to start with. The window was on its left, so he wouldn't obstruct the daylight when he was sat at it, and as it was north-facing that would've made all the difference. Despite the light streaming in on this glorious day the window was tight shut and the desk-lamp on, as though his winter habits wouldn't relent until spring had actually arrived. All along the other walls stood bookshelves, their beautiful leather spines, like the ones in Magnus' library, facing the world and bearing titles in languages from all over Europe – past and present. Despite the copious volumes, however, it did not carry the pleasant smell of books, but of smoke, and stale unwashed air. Hauler's pipe, curiously slim for such large hands, sat smouldering in a holder on the desk, and no doubt he'd been sweating all winter in his multiple layers of clothing.

Offering Nikola the seat opposite Hauler took his place behind the desk, and, pushing aside his almost physical distaste for the scents currently suffocating his olfactory, Tesla soon accepted. Setting his hat on his lap the Serbian watched the older-looking man nestle himself in the corner of the room – protected on all sides, with both hands tented together at their fingertips. It was an easily defended position, from which his confidence was clear enough, like a castled king on a chess board.

"Your paper was a most excellent read Mr Mandić, most impressive."

They'd known it would draw the attention of whoever had handled the Spear; it was designed for that express purpose. Whoever had unlocked its secrets would, undoubtedly, have come across the late vampire script etched onto its reverse, perhaps even fully translated the language – a feat not one of them, not even Gregory Magnus, had ever achieved. In fact, fascinated by his research into this mystery, Nikola had spent most of the winter wondering whether he ought to make a concerted effort to do precisely that, and learn more about his ancestors from their own mouths, rather than those malignant churchmen who had silenced them forever – but that was by the by.

When Griffin had emerged from the trenches the only name he'd had to go on had been a man called Neurath, an Austrian statistician, known to have been – at the time – a member of the War Ministry. Neurath's close links with Vienna, coupled with the distinct likelihood that any top secret research undoubtedly had its origins in academia, made it the logical place to target. So even before Helen had gone to Number 10 they'd started working on an article which was both linguistically brilliant, and radical enough in its hypotheses, to attract the enemy.

Using Watson's contact in Switzerland – the same man who'd transferred their money – they'd published it the very day they completed Nikola's false identity, and waited, to see who would bite. That it was someone whose work focused so heavily on the era of Charlemagne and the Latin of the early Germanic church came as no surprise to any of them.

"I was particularly intrigued by your ruminations on the non-Latin script present in the Genevan records," the professor continued with great predictability.

Nikola shrugged at such adroit praise with that special blend of nonchalance and barely veiled glee at having his brilliance acknowledged which only he could manage. So what if it had been a collaborative effort or that James had been the one teaching _him_ the more subtle nuances of historic Latin, Nikola Mandić was supposed to be the genius here – and he _had_ caught the context of the vampire phrase inserted into the Latin, so the praise wasn't entirely undeserved. "Well, you know, I could have just written it off as mystical kauderwelch, like so many of my fellow researchers," he sighed wistfully, "but I just can't find it in me to ignore the empirically obvious."

The arrogant jab at his peers made Hauler bark another abrupt laugh, impressed by an audacity which Mandić seemed quite prepared to back up with the genuine article. If it was a bluff, the professor thought to himself, it was a bloody good one, "In all seriousness sir, we're very eager to have your like on-board. Our research programme could do with something of a boost," he grew sombre; chin tucking in against his chest with a short exhale, "and what with so many of our finest minds at the front…"

The sentiment was a common one, but deeply felt, nonetheless. Nikola let the moment lie out of respect, as much as for the vivid memories of clever artillerymen and naïve chemists cut down like blades of grass upon the mountainside. _Mandić_, he reminded himself, had never felt any love for his ancestral nationality, nor witnessed the bloody feints of warfare in the Balkans; he had spent the war safe in Switzerland and knew nothing of the sacrifices others were making on his behalf. So he soon dragged the conversation back, kicking and screaming, from its more contemplative avenue.

"How could I pass up such an opportunity?" He smiled, with an almost coy admiration, "To work with the translator of the _Verona Palimpsest_."

Hauler's lips twisted in an uneasy acknowledgement of a subtle flattery which wasn't misplaced, even to his mind, "You're too kind, but, if you don't mind me asking Mr Mandić… you are young. Why are you too not out there fighting this _endless_ war?"

The way he'd hung on that word was distracting. Nikola blinked, composing himself for the tour de force of lies he was about to dive into. He looked askance, "You and I both know Professor Hauler, that anyone of _Serbian_ descent is not trusted here anymore."

"It can feel that way at times, certainly," Hauler caught his eyes empathetically, "it's not much better for us Hungarians."

Tesla inclined his head a little at that, "Until you called, I'd given up any hope that my homeland would ever accept me – call it stubbornness if you will," he gestured with a cut of his hand, "but I did not want to fight for a country which did not respect my desire to live there, and be part of that nation."

His hands shook slightly, barely perceptibly on the brim of his hat, but it wasn't from feigned anger.

"Hmm," Hauler considered sympathetically, reminded of the prejudices he himself had faced, the difficulties in establishing himself in society, even in academia, "Well, I hope that will change for you Nikolaus – do you mind me calling you that?" he smiled, waving his hand distractedly. Nikola waved him off in acceptance, and his soon-to-be-boss continued, "A brilliant mind such as yours? You will have the department's _full support_ with me at its helm."

Nikola listened closely, allowing Hauler to settle into an easy flow which indicated, to his relief, that his story had indeed been bought.

"We hope to get you on our main research project at the minute – I'm sure the Genevan records will have wetted your appetite, but we have quite unique sources here in the archives dating back further still. This ancient _kauderwelch_ of yours appears on numerous occasions."

Nikola pretended to be intrigued, but not overly so, "You have more of it?"

He nodded sagely, "Given the Latin alongside it, we believe its importance to be beyond what even you yourself had suggested, which is why we're so keen to get these translations complete."

So they hadn't finished translating? Nikola wondered whether perhaps the scientific research had hit a bump, and they wanted more of the texts, to see if they held the key to fixing the problem instead of finding their own solution... like any _genius_ would. _Kids today,_ he thought to himself, _always looking for someone else to fix their problems_.

"I can't wait," he beamed, "when would you like me to start?"

"Tomorrow, if you are able to? I know it's a Friday…"

Nikola shrugged in acceptance and Hauler shifted in his seat a little, sitting more upright and preparing to explain the details, when a rather demanding quintet of knocks rapped on the door and subsequently burst open. Knowing it wasn't the secretary from tempo alone; Nikola watched Hauler's reaction swerve from instantaneous fire, to unsurprised annoyance in five seconds flat.

"Hauler."

Nikola turned at the unexpectedly female voice, curious now where he hadn't been before. The woman, who stood with the door still half-open, wasn't physically intimidating, but the no-nonsense set to her mouth, the brusque familiarity with which she addressed the professor suggested a formidable personality. Even her facial features were somewhat shrew-like, and though her fists were not balled, her slight frame seemed to carry with it a permanent sense of disgruntlement, enhanced by the peppering of white and grey strands in her hair.

Noticing the stranger sharing the room one of her eyebrows arched knowingly, but that was as far as her acknowledgement of him went, "Would you care to explain to me why Mr Frauwallner seems to be under the impression that his thesis will be _failed_, on the grounds that it '_wasn't what you'd expected_'?"

Hauler didn't answer, he breathed, bristling beneath the accusation. "Dr Richter," he bit out with a brittle, rather unconvincing smile, "this is Mr Mandić – he's here to work out our mystery script, and maybe improve upon a few _Latin translations_."

He was deliberately baiting her. The antagonism was palpable, both Hauler and Richter willing the other to break through their civilised fronts and show themselves for the beastly creatures they each held the other to be. She held onto Hauler's line of sight until it had almost become rude when, remembering her manners, she blinked in Nikola's direction and let the tension in her body briefly relax.

"A pleasure Mr Mandić," she wasn't angry at _him_, but her irritation with Hauler seeped into every brief, polite syllable, making it a touch cool, if even a little dismissive. She didn't reach for his hand, or leave a great deal of time for him to respond in kind. Not that Tesla was too concerned – busy, as he was, enjoying the show. "I'm sorry to interrupt Hauler, but this is important, and I'll not-"

"Ah, Elise," he interrupted her mounting tirade, causing her to stiffen at the use of what was clearly her Christian name, "I'm glad you're here, as it happens."

She eyed him cautiously, taken off-guard by such a sentiment, and he smiled cruelly at having succeeded in his objective.

"I was going to ask you to show Mandić around, _introduce_ him to our University…" he caught Tesla's eye as though to indicate this was less about him, than his own desperate urge to avoid her question – though why a student's paper would be so contentious... "Yes, I think that would work rather well." Richter's mouth was half-open with the sound of complaint, but Professor Hauler cut in airily before she could form a word, "Dr Richter is well-versed in our research," he addressed to Nikola, who found the Professor's sudden change of tactics a more than interesting development.

"Professor I must-"

"She can fill you in quite capably, actually," he interrupted her again, as though this wasn't really anything that was up for debate. "In fact… you could go _now_ – while Dr Richter still has some time on her hands." Somewhere in the direction of Nikola's left shoulder Dr Richer sighed in exasperation, causing Hauler to look towards her, "Unless you have somewhere else to _be_ Doctor? No? Well that's settled then. We can meet again later, for lunch or afternoon coffee – and I can fill in any gaps, answer any questions."

The unspoken implication that Dr Richter would, in fact, fail to do her job effectively, was not something any of them failed to notice. It had all the subtlety of a steam train smacking into a deer, but Richter did a good job of hiding the fury from all but her suddenly vicious stare. Hauler behaved as though it were nothing at all, standing up and offering his hand to Nikola in a fashion which clearly indicated to everyone that this interview was over - for both of them.

Reluctantly accepting the proffered hand, Tesla stood up, "Shall I return here when we're finished?"

Hauler nodded glumly, more as he had been when he'd first laid eyes on him than the animated tactician which had just reared its head, "If I am free we'll speak straight after, if not, I'll have my secretary arrange an appointment with you?"

Nikola nodded, his interest more than piqued by the professor's abrupt change of tack.

"Excellent," the vulture bobbed, blatantly ignoring Richter as though she had already left, until the time came to ensure she would, in fact, leave; "we shall reconvene later then, when I am more at leisure. My thanks, Doctor!"

She rolled her eyes at that, hand grabbing for the door handle before Nikola had so much as stepped away from the desk, and then, curiously, waiting for him. He suspected it had everything to do with her desire to shut the door on her boss with a firm and thoroughly annoyed thump.

* * *

**Author's Note:** OMG I am sooo sorry to leave you guys hanging this long but I've just found it really hard to settle down at the computer lately. Especially as I had to do a fair bit of research using google translate – but I feel pretty pleased with it, so that's a good thing right?

Huge thank you to everyone who put up with such a long wait and is still with me! It was not helped by the fact that I was all ready to post this when I discovered – would you believe it – that much like this year, 1917 was an exceptionally long winter! So I had to just adjust the climate a little… and work out the timeline for my plot :)

History Nugget - Dr Elise Richter (1865 - 1943), on whom this character is evidently based - was the first female professor at Vienna! How cool is that?

Next time... Richter gives Nikola the not-so-grand tour.

**Rose**: you are too kind, and your reviews are amazing motivation! I'm so sorry to leave you hanging so long (again) but RL is a stressy SOB and when there's sunshine my laptop is too hot to type! :( Hope your revision is going well and good luck in your exams!

**Peridot5**: He he, dude, again, so motivational! Thank you! That you are an anti-shipper and not only enjoy this, but think I'm sticking in character? That's so cool. I really want to hear your opinion on this once it's all played out, and not just because you said you liked it. :)

**DISCLAIMER**: Hauler, Richter and Frauwallner are based on actual real people, who actually really existed, and were real intellectuals at Vienna at this time. Their personalities, and to some extent, their looks, however, are my own fabrications and I mean no disrespect to their now deceased inspirations.


	9. Chapter 9 - Philosophie

Twelve and a half steps, round the corner and on, Dr Richter had yet to say a world to him. Or look at him beyond a glance, for that matter. She'd fixed on a point at the horizon, lips fused together in an unpleased turn, nose angled a little too high to be relaxed. At first he wasn't entirely sure if it was another sign of her anger, or just her way, but each step seemed to gradually wear away at the guard she'd thrown up against Hauler like dust settling on a mantelpiece. Her blood-pressure was dropping, gradually, so Tesla held off a little longer. Waiting until he could probably – just about – get away with testing her patience, and asking her what that little exchange back there had been all about.

Richter beat him to it, however, and took the conversation down a decidedly different path.

"So, Mr Mandić, have you visited Vienna before?"

"Yes," he watched her head twist at that short, matter-of-fact answer, beady eyes assessing his easy, unconcerned manner as he let the statement hang, unexplored for just a beat, "many times."

As they continued down the corridors she smiled slightly to herself, her expression seemingly tempered by the realisation that she had let her ire spill onto undeserved shoulders. She shook her head, quickly warding the thought and the smile away, regarding her unexpected charge with a renewed interest and a more courteous tone, "For lectures and the like?"

"Sadly not," he lied, feeling it slip through his lips like a forked tongue. Conferences kept records though, and he didn't want anyone digging up the fact that there had never been a delegate by the name of Mandić in the entire 500 year history of the university. "I've lived in Zurich for…" he exhaled as though working it out, "five years now. Exiled," at the hardened tone and accusatory narrowing of his eyes Richter slowed her quick march just a touch, "so to speak."

He could almost hear the interest in her pulse, the cogs in her head turning as he studiously avoided looking her way.

"You were born in…?"

"Austria." The word was neutral, but loaded all the same – it wasn't hard to do. The same empire had held dominion over Smiljan after all; so it was true, in a sense, and while he had always admired Vienna, its rulers weren't always the kindest of governors.

He hazarded a glance at her, the conflict still creating that depression of spirits which marked his more sombre moods, but she wasn't an easy woman to read. In the most obvious respects – an intelligent career-mined woman – she was not unlike Helen, but there was a permanent twinge of discomfort in the corner of Elise Richter's mouth which tainted her every expression. It made it tricky to tell where the unease had originated, with the effect of masking her reactions just enough to make him sure of nothing.

Nothing except the suspicion that if anyone was going to whistle-blow on his true intentions, it would surely be her: observant, sharp-minded, direct… Hauler might be too greedy to see it, but Richter would notice every little detail and if he put a foot wrong, _she_ would be the one to notice it.

Well, Nikola had never been one to shy away from a challenge.

"Ah," she smiled sadly, a touch of warmth in the shared understanding of one's attachment to their homeland, "So this must feel like something of a homecoming to you then, ha?"

His lips turned upwards at the unusual sound she'd punctuated her sentence with, "Yes," he admitted as they approached a set of double doors, his voice growing introspective, "though… Vienna isn't exactly as I remember."

Elise stopped in her tracks, the poignant silence punctuating the truth of it, before she reached out to open the door.

"I'm afraid, Mr Mandić," she began with a wry sobriety, "that the kings and politicians of this world have made something of a mess of it."

0

After signing Nikola up with the librarians at the entrance, where they were guarding the lockers into which visitors were required to store large bags and cases, Dr Richter brought him into the Grosser Lesesaal. It was like a laboratory for books – a huge glass ceiling letting in a flood of light onto the clinical magnolia of the walls. Four avenues of reading desks stretched the length of the hall, like a street party on the jubilee, electric lamps fitted to every surface in case the sky should grow dark. Richter took him up a short flight of wrought iron stairs, a balcony which circuited the room inside the arcades and allowed one to reach the upper shelves.

"Besides your office," Elise explained in a hushed voice – still receiving pointed stares from one gentleman, "this will undoubtedly become the most important place for you."

Nikola had to admit, he rather liked the clean modern look of it, with just a subtle nod to the ancient past. It was no Radcliffe Camera, but he'd take sufficient illumination to read by over antique bookcases any day, and as Richter led him through to the linguistic section he felt his intellectual curiosity leap into life. He couldn't lie; the chance to investigate the Spear and its origins, let alone translate the language of his forefathers, meant far more than a means to an end – for them all – even if Magnus and Watson seemed determined to put that all to one side in the name of King and Country.

"So what's the focus of your research?" Tesla enquired quietly, somewhere between the Ancient Language and History sections, twirling his pointed finger at the shelves as though to illustrate the conversation, as his other hand rested at his back. "Only, Hauler was rather tight-lipped so far, on precisely what it consists of."

With the briefest nod Elise returned to his side, in order to speak as close to silent as she could manage and still remain audible. "We've been making a deeper study of the transitional Latin," she began matter-of-factly, "focusing on the eighth and ninth centuries – and the early Germanic church in particular."

Tesla nodded – the reign of Charlemagne… and the period in which the Spear of Destiny seemed to have been appropriated by the church.

She tipped her head towards the other end of the library, drawing him out of the ear-shot of the handful of scholars trying to concentrate. There might have been a hint of disapproval in her own mouth too, if he wasn't mistaken.

Leading him through the door set into the eastern wall on one end of the library, she took him down the narrow corridor and into one of the many adjoining rooms. It had a few desks and chairs, lights, a large window looking out onto the courtyard below, and she wasted no time explaining its use.

"The study rooms are very useful for group work," she illustrated, clearly feeling no need to hush her voice in here, "or if you have something of value you wish to study from the archives sometimes they'll ask you to do so in here for security. I use them quite a lot myself, but, to answer your question more fully Mr Mandić:" she linked her hands together neatly, "we have been studying the transition from ancient to medieval Latin, and, in the process, discovered fragments of, what appears to be, an even older, more ancient language for which we have no precedent."

Nikola detected a hint of disapproval in the statement, as if she wasn't quite as converted as Hauler had been, "Only appears to be?"

She straightened herself, mirroring his posture, "The Professor is quite right to believe it to be a language new to scholarship," she agreed, "to both philology _and_ history."

He tilted his head interestedly, a small smile ghosting the corners of his expression as he pointed one long finger towards her, "But… you have your reservations?"

"What I think's beside the point," she replied offhandedly, "…even if Hauler cared."

The statement puzzled Tesla. That there was a conflict between their approach came as no surprise, the nature of that disagreement, however… what was it about the vampire script which she undervalued? What part of Hauler's theory had she dismissed?

It must have shown on his face, because she eventually gave in to something more of an explanation, "Well, I mean, it's practically financed the entire department for the last two years, this little discovery."

Nikola's ears pricked up, his mind running a mile with that snippet. So they _were_ receiving external funding for their research: the government war machine no doubt. If he found evidence of _that_, they were certainly in the right place.

"There are plenty of departments which have all-but disappeared in that time," she continued. "We depend upon this, to survive."

He could've asked, could, but wouldn't – it just didn't feel right. What academic started asking about their employer's revenue streams on the first day? Heck, when did scholars _ever_ put finances above their research? Nikola certainly wasn't prone to it himself. So quietly, painfully, he let the subject lie and filed it away for later.

In the quiet he became aware of her watching him, expecting a response he hadn't even begun to formulate yet. He needed another topic of conversation, and fast.

"Does Hauler dislike _you_, or the fact that you're a woman?"

Her eyebrows raised instantly at so direct and personal a question being delivered, out of the blue, with such absolute pragmatism; as if he hadn't considered for one second that so audacious a question was something he ought not to ask. An unexpected smile lifted her mouth – the man was perceptive though, she'd give him that. Such as shame that it was clearly an attribute he was _fully_ conscious of possessing.

Twisting her head she avoided his penetrating stare, "The Professor has never had any problems with my work," was her cagey response, before redirecting her attention to his, "though I would hazard he is considerably less at ease with my femininity than you." She nodded towards him, "You are remarkably comfortable with my position here Mr Mandić – if you don't mind my saying so. I've had men younger than you yourself give me the patronising disdain of stalwarts three times their age, but I sense you've worked alongside a woman of intellect before."

He shrugged harmlessly, "My…" an irrepressible grin spread across his features as he realised what he was about to say - what he was being _allowed_ to say, "fiancé's a doctor of medicine." Oh he was never going to get tired of saying that, as often as he could, preferably with Helen around so she'd have to fight off the glare of irritation in order to maintain the illusion of the happy couple.

"Ah," Elise nodded slightly, picking up on his obvious delight at the mention of the woman in question. Warming to him somewhat, at the indication that he respected a woman's mind as well as her person: a rarity, even in these halls of 'clever' individuals, "Then _you_ are a lucky man."

The way she flipped the phrase around made Nikola smile: she had no idea how true it was.

0

Showing him around the seminar rooms and lecture halls, they at last found themselves in the Grosser Festsaal, where the brightest minds of Vienna graduated. He'd been here before, just the once – this tall ode to the eighteenth-century palaces of Enlightened despots and gold-ridden Roman churches. It had all the theatre of power, but without the threat behind it the room seemed small somehow, more comfortable than imposing. His eyes drifted automatically up, wondering whether they'd ever actually installed the paintings Klimt and Matsch had been commissioned to provide after all the fuss which had surrounded them. Apparently not, Nikola noted with a wry smirk. The sensual reflections he'd seen hanging at the Vienna Secession exhibition in the last decade had clearly been deemed inappropriate for the impressionable youth who would be standing beneath them.

That the Deans and Chancellors had felt uncomfortable with the twisted naked bodies that had emerged from Klimt's golden clouds, or unease beneath the watchful pull of Medicine's imperious allure, was hardly a shock. In little more than a generation the university had become a place of tradition over innovation, a reassurance in an uncertain time, a reassertion of an old order which could feel its strength beginning to crumble beneath its fingertips.

Tesla knew by the very fact they were here that Dr Richter was getting to the end of her tour. It was a natural place to end. When they were out of earshot of the general public, she'd been explaining the division of labour for the programme. Unsurprisingly it was Hauler who had all the juicy parts, the texts most closely associated with the nature and history of the Spear of Destiny – the supposedly Holy Lance of Jesus' crucifixion – which, she explained, was held with other royal regalia in the Hofburg Palace.

"Fridolin has the script on the artefact itself to work on and similar phrases which appear in other texts…" she continued, standing dead-centre in the room, resting her hands together at her front, "he made a name for himself a few years back in early Greek, and Pheonician. I have a series of short texts with what appear to be fragments of this _unknown_ _language_. Much like the Geneva paper you were working on."

He nodded in understanding, taking it in before addressing his next question with all seriousness, "What are you hoping to achieve then – what's the goal here?"

A small smile of intrigue graced her, "Crack the code of course. We want to know where this script came from. Who wrote it – why? Does it back up the claims made in the Latin we have already translated? Or not…"

"Which were?" he asked, trying not to seem coy and give away that he knew full-well what they would have discovered – they'd found the same references in their own research. The same hints that here was something powerful, something truly destructive.

She regarded him cannily, as though he wouldn't believe her, as though he would baulk at the first mention of abnormals. He'd seen that look many times before, in someone else… Watson. James' guarded amusement – more condescending than Helen's equivalent expression, and yet at the same time not without respect for the question being asked – stared right back at him from a woman considerably shorter and frailer-looking than the robust detective they'd left behind on British shores.

"_Dangerous claims_," she teased dryly, as though she wasn't wholly convinced by the description, "You'll soon read for yourself…" she pointed out, staring as though waiting for him to shift uncomfortably – Nikola stayed precisely where he was, "We'll be giving you a few manuscripts from a sister-house to the Benedictines at Tour who appear to have bestowed the Emperor with the Holy Lance. We haven't had chance to sit down and read them through, which is why, I suspect, Hauler has handed them to you."

They looked each other dead in the eye, neither of them able to guess at what the other was thinking, both actually trying to see.

"They seem to have quoted a whole passage of our unknown script," she carried on as if it were nothing, the crease in her forehead the only mark of a lingering annoyance at her inability to discern what that neutral expression of his had meant; "and we're hoping it might help us improve our grammatical understanding of the language."

…_and t__ell us how to turn the damn thing on_; he thought to himself once again, reading between the blasé lines she fed him, and hearing the studiously unacknowledged importance that had been ascribed to his task. Something she seemed determined to hide, just as she'd dodged his last question.

A solid weight dropped down his back, a reminder that he was still among the sharks. She didn't trust him – yet – and she might never trust him. Details were things he would only become privy to over time, as he proved his worth to them – she and Hauler both – and _time_ was the one thing they had been running short on from the very start.

Whatever lay in these manuscripts, he had to work it out before they did, and _soon_.

**Author's Note:**

Plot! Thickening plot! Ah it's good to have something to post folks. Hope it doesn't feel too… abrupt. I usually let it lay for a few days before re-reading and posting, but I was desperate to put something up so I really want feedback on this one.

The title – Philosophie – is not a misspelling but the German spelling, and was the title of one of the ceiling paintings Klimt produced for the Grosser Festsaal. Sadly as it's been lost there's no colour version on the internet but I'd check it out, 'cause it's beautiful.

Had fun researching the university building, and the various intellectuals – Fridolin's name is based on a real Viennese intellectual but this is very much an OC bearing very little relation to the actual historical figure. How will Tesla's lies stand up to Elise's scrupulous stare? Hmmmm. Only time will tell.

Next time, two words… Sigmund Freud.

Oh yes.

**Peridot5**: frabjous – what an excellent word. :D Thank you for the compliments – and huh, well what do you know, maybe Latin runs in the Richter family? Lol

**Kat**: Thank you for your amazing review on _Sandstorms_, it really, genuinely, made me very happy to be doing this and making such an impact. I am really not joking when I say that the biggest compliments anyone on fanfic can pay me is: you're sticking in character, and it's well written. Believe me when I say that if I could convince the owners of Sanctuary to print my work I would be deliriously happy and I have TOTALLY considered asking if they'd like to sell it for SanctuaryForKids but haven't a clue where I'd start or if anyone would actually buy it, so to have you say you would means the world. :) Hope you continue to enjoy this!

**UPDATE: 18/08/13** – Yeah, when re-reading for the purposes of a later chapter I realised I'd changed something so a bit of this was redundant. If you can tell what I've changed well done, you are VERY observant.


	10. Chapter 10 - Viennoiserie

Café Landtmann was, to Helen's surprise, practically across the street from the University, directly opposite the expansive park in which the municipal buildings of the Rathaus were set. It was a position which would, in the future, make it a good place to meet with Nikola on his way home, and a good observation post too – for the comings and goings of city officials and researchers. The café itself was an aristocratically pale construction on a corner where the wide-open Ringstraβe met the winding medieval streets of the innere stadt.

Tables were stacked against the wall on the wide pavement, awaiting the warmer weather which had yet to arrive, and the customers it would tempt into the out of doors. Helen was a little surprised that the bright morning hadn't prompted them to put a few out though… clearly they didn't think there were enough people around for it to be worth the effort. The story appeared to be the same everywhere. She'd spent the morning figuring out where the various intellectual clubs and societies met, which bars and cafes had succumbed to the harsh climate of war, and which continued to survive. There had been plenty of boarded-up windows in Vienna's square mile – haberdashers and watchmakers, cafes and restaurants. The whole city felt as though it were hobbling along, suddenly feeling its age after a brief rush of mid-life vitality had finally passed.

This café too had seen better days. It wasn't that it didn't have quite fabulous mahogany panelling, or a distinctly modern cleanliness of line in the arches and mirrors that so brilliantly reflected the light from the windows. No, it was the tired curtains, the odd bulb gone out in the electric chandeliers, the worn upholstery that had taken the imprint of their most regular guests and gone un-replaced for years.

Even so, the pungent combination of coffee and cigarettes filled the air in a loose cloud, the clatter of ceramics a chorus to the quiet murmurings of the few customers. Magnus had requested a seat by the window, tucked in the corner so she could see the street, the door, almost everyone in the establishment, without looking like it was intentional. The waiter, a boy of no more than sixteen she was sure, was very accommodating of her preference for tea, and she had been sat there, trying to finish the God-awful brew that just about passed for Breakfast blend, listening and observing ever since – all the while moderately tempted by the thought of Black Forest Gateaux.

At some point after lunch she had made the acquaintance of a polite young man named Eugen, a physician who'd asked whether she was alright and struck up a conversation. He seemed nervous by himself, and explained he was still uncomfortable in public, knowing that he'd been granted dispensation from conscription to assist the medical training and research at the university hospital. It was the same back in Britain – the animosity the men out of uniform faced. Helen had vivid memories of the white feathers, fluttering in the lapels of pacifists, and even Watson, to mark them out for public condemnation. A ridiculous practice – if only they knew how much they owed men like James! But then she'd never been a fan of such unpleasant bullying and rabble-rousing. The fact that it was a ritual promoted by activists who had blown up the now Prime Minister's home four years previous, and used rare, unwitting abnormals as the weapon too, she might add, only added to her intense distaste for the practice.

So she had some sympathy for Mr Kolisko's position. He'd been very pleasant company – interesting too, when he realised she had studied medicine and launched into his various projects. Fascinating though his research was, it seemed to be nothing more than a straight-forward enquiry into preventative medicine and anthroposophy, and as difficult as it was for Helen to not throw herself into an intellectual discussion on the holistic treatment of patients, she at least tried to focus on getting something of use out of the man. In the end however, all Mr Kolisko had managed to confirm, in a burst of pessimistic annoyance, was that the government had shifted their funding to decidedly less benevolent avenues of medical study.

With the advent of mustard gas, this was hardly news.

_Chemical warfare_. With unnerving inevitability, _someone_ had figured it out, realised the dreams of the criminal genius who'd sunk to his watery grave not nine years ago. In all honesty, she would have been more surprised to hear the government _wasn't_ funding medical research: to combat its effects on their own men… or come up with something even worse for the Tommies on the Front.

All too soon Mr Kolisko's lunch hour was up, and necessity drew him back to his laboratories and hospital wards, leaving Magnus with little more to go on than she'd had when she'd come in. Patience, she reminded herself – as though Watson were there murmuring in her ear – she wasn't going to turn up the weapon and its creators on the first day.

When the waiter came back to her table Helen finally ordered the cake she'd been putting off, more for an excuse to stay than anything. "May I ask," she ventured of the young lad.

He span back to the friendly lady, "Yes ma'm?"

"Are there many Prussians hereabouts? Like me."

The kid thought about it a moment, "Not that I know of ma'm. Why do you ask?"

She shook her down-cast head with a wistful smile which did nothing to indicate her true motive, "It's nothing… I just." She glanced warmly up at him, affecting a little sadness that might draw out some sympathy, "I thought it might be nice if there was… someone from back home, to talk to."

The adolescent clearly didn't get it, but was polite enough not to trample on so heart-felt a supplication, "Sorry ma'm… but I'll, keep an ear out," his smile was large and generous – the sort that would make a mother wink proudly back.

Helen picked her cup up daintily, "That's very sweet of you."

The boy shrugged and span away, probably with no intention of doing what he'd said, but putting the idea in his head was enough. Back in the trenches of the Somme, where Nigel had first heard mention of this vampire device being turned into a weapon of modern warfare, he'd said the soldier running his mouth had a distinctly Prussian accent. It was worth a shot. She should probably give it a go in every coffee house in the city – frequent them each on a rotation, try to work out who the regulars were, and where.

So far she'd heard precious little of the communists and socialists, but perhaps they had all followed their leaders into revolution? It seemed Landtmann was popular with scientists and lecturers too though, as it filled up over lunch, and again for afternoon coffee. A gentleman two tables away debated the use of two types of silver compound in sterilisation, another with a medical case by his chair discussed his son's poetry from the Eastern front, and still more came in with occupational stains of iodine and other chemicals on their scrubbed-clean hands. Helen was sure, however, that the day's revelations had already been had, and her head was starting to hum at low-capacity, tired of assessing each line of conversation around her for any hint or veiled reference of ground-breaking experiments, abnormals, and the ancient Spear. Besides which, the customers were slowly starting to dwindle away, like the unusual-tasting patisserie she'd been working through for the last hour.

She asked for her cheque. Maybe she could linger in the hotel lounge for a while, get more of an idea of who exactly was residing there – flirt with a general or two? Just as she was paying, her eye caught on a couple of gentlemen at the window. One of whom looked remarkably familiar… she smiled to herself. What were the bloody chances? Shaking her head slightly she averted her eyes so as not to be caught staring. Should she introduce herself? It had been years, she'd been one in a crowd – he'd hardly remember her.

Fixing on his thinning, greying scalp, the cigar in his hand, Magnus worried her bottom lip feeling twenty years younger. Remembering the uncertainty and determination which had momentarily overwhelmed her younger self, until she'd missed her chance to shake his hand and ask the burning questions his lecture had set off in her mind. Of course she should. When else was she going to rectify the fact that despite all those letters she'd never met him, never personally thanked him for at least _trying_ to help her understand John's condition?

After all, Mr Freud wasn't getting any younger, and it didn't take a moment to say thank you. He didn't need to know the why. As she approached she realised he was in deep conversation with his friend – a man only a little younger than himself, with a little more hair, and sporting a thin pair of glasses pushed right up to the bridge of his nose – the perfect excuse not to bother him for long. It would, after all, be impolite.

Freud's eyes caught her before she got there, a quizzical look, observing steadily. There was a slight upturn to his mouth, as though he'd recognised something about her behaviour and was waiting to be proven correct. Helen refused to shy away from it, smiling prettily as he turned attention back to his companion in an attempt redress his absentmindedness at whatever conversation they were having.

"I do believe my _infamy_ has struck again old friend," the psychoanalyst suddenly mused a little pointedly to the man in front of him, just as Helen drew level with their table and stopped. He turned to her with a warm and welcoming expression, to which she smiled with an acknowledging lilt to her head that Freud appeared to find quite charming.

"You saw that I recognised you."

"Indeed madam," his voice was textured but gentle, "you had the air of one determined to a task. I doubt it would require any familiarity with psychoanalytic theory to recognise your intent, though I must admit some surprise that you feel motivated to do so – perhaps you were amongst the curious few attending my winter lectures?"

She smiled again, unable to keep off the relief that he had so easily slotted her into his story without her so much as saying a word. Simply avoiding the truth was always so much easier than an outright lie, and she could feel the bubble of nerves at her own impulsiveness slowly ebbing beneath the confidence of her position.

"I do apologise for interrupting you."

"Not at all," she raised an eyebrow at his matter-of-fact response, "it takes courage to approach a stranger one only knows by reputation – more so when there is something you wish to impart." Again that quizzical eyebrow arched meaningfully on one side, "This gentleman is a friend of mine," he cast his hand across the table, "Professor Löwy," they looked at each other properly.

"Professor," she greeted, and he smiled politely.

"You can say anything you would like madam, Löwy is of an open mind – he shan't hold it against you. Even if it is to disagree with me," the two men smirked at each other, sharing an inside moment she wasn't privy to.

Magnus glanced at her shoes, trying to remember what she was going to say, how she was going to say it, without giving away who she was. "Well I just… wanted to say thank you really," she blushed, embarrassed suddenly by the childishness of the situation, feeling terribly exposed. Collecting herself she addressed him more directly, "A few years ago I had a patient who was believed beyond all hope… but your work gave me reason to do so, it… gave me a reason to keep trying."

They had all gone very quiet, watching her with sincerity at the meaningfulness of what she had to say.

"It is a lesson I shall never forget."

Her lips pressed together then, as if steeling herself for ridicule and it reminded Freud to speak, though her eloquent speech had been more than he'd been expecting. Women, it seemed, never ceased to surprise him even after all these years.

"Please… my apologies," he chastised himself, "I never asked for your name-"

"Hel_ena_…" she wavered, glad she could pass it off for nerves, "Dr Helena Max." She offered her hand, and he took it, smiling as though his suspicion had been confirmed.

He pressed his head against his chest, indicating the spare chair next to Löwy, "Please, Dr Max, take a seat."

"Oh no, I shouldn't."

"I insist," he put a stop to her mid-refusal, kindly proffering the spot once again.

She looked between the two of them – Löwy didn't seem to mind, shifting his things to make more room for her and smiling reassuringly her way. Tea and cake with Freud? Well, Magnus tea-parties always had been the most interesting. She started to relent.

"If you're… sure. Perhaps just one drink."

Freud's close-lipped smile beamed broadly at her from the low tuck of his chin. "I would feel honoured."

She chuckled then, "_You'd_ feel honoured?"

"Yes," he inserted as she settled in, apprehending whatever she was about to say, "it is not very often that someone pays me so great a compliment, as to thank me for giving them not only the tools to do their duty as a physician, but hope as well."

Helen's blue eyes sparkled with appreciation, searching his for any hint of what was going on in his life that he felt so humbled by her small admission.

"I take it you are from Germany?"

The mention of her accent sent a paranoid trill through her bones, a look of surprise which he would hopefully misinterpret – but she was very glad her accent passed muster. "How can you tell?" she quipped.

He shrugged, indicating to the waiter that they wanted to place an order when he was finished with the customers he was currently heading for.

"Did you study there or here in Vienna?"

"In Zurich, actually."

"Ah."

"Your work on hysteria Dr Freud, I have to tell you – it was so _brave_ for its day, and now it seems so obvious, so commonplace, to treat the mind on its own terms instead of trying to limit it to our narrow understanding."

Freud smiled, proud to hear his work fully appreciated – as though it was something he felt he should hear more of. It was a look which rather reminded her of a certain Serbian vampire, though the enthusiasm didn't radiate out of Sigmund in quite the same way.

"It does, doesn't it. Though-" he paused at the sight of his old friend, starting to slip away into boredom, and he smirked, "forgive me Löwy." Freud re-settled himself, adjusting his jacket and addressing Helen, "Löwy, I'm afraid, does not share our profession Dr Max." He smiled even wider, "He is, in fact, an archaeologist – he indulges the antiquarian in me. The collector of memories."

Löwy chuckled, "You are so colourful for a scientist Freud, I know literature professors with less imagination."

Helen smiled between them.

"We were just discussing Ancient Greece, in fact," Sigmund continued.

Magnus' eyebrow arched with interest, knowing the mythology and philosophies of the ancients figured heavily in his more recent work.

"Yes," Löwy added, "Sigmund was just ruminating on his latest theory that we are all longing to live and longing to die."

The words resonated a little too closely with her, "Really?"

Löwy nodded, "I think it has some precedent – as I was just saying, in the myth of Achilles. Once Antilochus falls, Achilles fights with the ferocity of someone looking to die. He does not stop killing and fighting until someone fells him with an arrow. He does not go fighting because he believes he cannot be stopped, what he wants to rejoin with the one he has lost."

"He wants to die." Continued Freud, "The ferocity of his attack, his anguish, comes from his conflict with the belief that to want to die is not natural, and it is overwhelming his drive to live."

Helen considered it for a moment, remembering the feel of her feet sinking into the mud of trenches, the whine of shells flying overhead, the groans of injured Frenchmen with rats crawling to lap at their wounds. "You mean; there's always a part of us that wants to give up."

She looked at the psychoanalyst, wondering if he could see her memories playing out on the dark of her pupils.

"Precisely," he nodded, "and civilisation has spent millennia conditioning us to deny it."

"Well it has to," was her surprised response, "doesn't it? Otherwise we-"

"Wouldn't live." Freud finished for her, "Indeed," he toyed with the end of his cigar as he tipped out the ash, "though it has been too efficient at it. Now we think it is a weakness to so much as acknowledge that to die, to rest, to sleep might not only desirable, but is in fact, a necessity. We do not have a choice about it – it _will_ happen. All things have an end."

"Even the ancient Greeks considered death and sleep to be brothers you know," Löwy added.

"It is a natural rationalisation," Freud pointed out with a sad smile. "Inactivity is always a form of death."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Yay! Mission accomplished, Magnus has met Freud. :) One of those happy occurrences which were never mentioned but totally happened in cannon… totally – with a little black book like Magnus' how could it not?

Emanuel Löwy is also a real historical person. He was actually a friend of Freud's and an archaeologist. As Freud collected a lot of ancient artefacts and works of art, writing papers about fetish-isation of objects, and dreams and mythology, I'm sure these two had a lot to talk about. So too is Eugene Kolisko, though I don't know for sure if he was given dispensation from the army or why, he was definitely teaching in Vienna University during WW1 so something was going on there, and I attempted to fill in the gaps.

I've noticed that Worth's popping up in their thoughts more often than he did during The Iron Sea. I suspect this is due to the death and destruction on a global scale – ah, Hyde would be so proud.

Thanks to **Sparky She-Demon, Ty, Rose, cportera, and JanSuch** for such motivational comments! As I said on my updates, they've really cheered me up on what's turned out to be a rough week, I swear if I had enough hours in the day - I'd be going at the story like a crazy person to get to the action. It's just finding the time and/or brain power. :(

**Ty**, it's my pleasure. I love researching this stuff!

**JanSuch**, Thank you for being honest – it made me think more critically about some of the chapters coming up and the pace which is good. Though it is meant to build up a bit slower – and the long gaps between updates don't help – but I hope the pay-off I have planned is worth it. :)

Oh, and trust me, Tesla will find a very public way to tease Helen about being 'engaged' before the story's through ;)

**Next time**: it's banter time!

Also for anyone bored/interested/Pintrested! (Ha see what I did there?) I've started a mood board for this story on Pintrest: /saphyr88/vienna-in-springtime/ check it out if you feel like some time-wasting is in order. :)

As ever, apologies for the slow updates - and that this one isn't exceptionally long to make up for it :( - and for any spelling/grammar errors because I tried to get this out asap and only had chance for one proof read. *breathes* :)


	11. Chapter 11 - Sublimation

Thinking was always a practice best achieved with a glass of wine, Nikola found. He was sat in the armchair by the fireplace of his suite. A modest vintage in one hand, the other elbow dug into the armrest, fingers rubbing aimlessly against each other as he stared off into space. There were options, many options – the trick was finding the one which would get results, without alerting the enemy, which had become a very real possibility with Dr Richter in the department. He took another sip.

The click of a lock nearby sharpened his ears, a mildly-irritated stride from a familiar footfall as the door closed in. His head had turned instinctively, listening closely to the movements next door, the slight sigh, the depression of upholstery and the sudden drop of boots into a corner. He smiled to himself, taking another measure from his glass before stepping up from his seat and straightening himself out. Helen was home.

0

Magnus was half-way through her closet looking for something to change into for dinner, something to occupy her thoughts so she didn't dwell on her conversation with Freud, when a sudden knock made her jump. She frowned, surprised to hear it come from an inner, rather than the front door – when she remembered who was undoubtedly on the other side.

Shaking her head at her own foolishness, as much as the realisation that she'd be lucky if this didn't become a habit of his, she headed over and turned the key.

"Yes?" she asked with a slight bob of her head, pulling it open and never quite letting go, blocking the door.

Nikola's expression all-but mirrored hers, albeit with an added twist of amusement, as he spread an introductory palm towards the alcohol sitting on the small table between the chairs. Reflexively he made a sound close to clearing his throat, "Care to join me?"

Helen's eyes flicked to the bottle and back, feeling somehow as though he were asking for more than the simple pleasure of her company and wondering why- why was she looking for a catch? He was probably just curious about how things had gone, or more likely, wanting to go over how _his_ day had panned out – ever the centre of the universe to his own mind. So why had it sounded so much more like an offer to dance at one of the Oxford college balls? She let him stand there, like a ringmaster presenting the next act, for a little longer than was perhaps entirely fair, as she attempted to figure out that puzzling sense of intent. Needless to say, he gave nothing away, though the cocksure smirk became a modicum less convincing.

"I hope you're not running up our bill on the most expensive vintages," she finally chastised, even as she ventured into his room and let the door swing shut behind her.

He grinned as she passed him for the sofa, holding back from the obvious response – they both knew that 'running up an exorbitant bill' was _precisely_ what was going on here. "You know the best thing about being entirely fictitious," he posited quietly, following her over and pouring out a second glass, "is they'll never be able to chase up the debt."

"Nikola!" her disapproval was charming, it really was, "That doesn't mean we _should_."

He waved off the matter with an unconvinced sound, reclaiming his drink and former position in the chair.

"This isn't New York," she reminded him matter-of-factly. "No one's going to bail us out."

Uncertainty crept into the softness of her voice, eyes flicking distractedly to one side, and Nikola felt sobriety slide into his gut. It wasn't about the money. They'd be long gone before they were ever expected to cough up for this place – despite her fears to the contrary. If there was one thing Nikola knew well, it was luxury hotels, and he knew from experience that they never bothered long-term guests to make good on their credit unless said guest had long outstayed their welcome. He sipped on his wine, trying not to scrutinise Helen's body language as he did so, and failing.

She was tired, her normally erect frame starting to curl in on itself – as if in need of a pillow and a good book, her brow perpetually hovering about a slight frown. From the way her lips were forced against each other he supposed something concerning was playing on her mind, but she didn't want it to form into words. Her fingers trailed lightly along the stem of her glass, and in a moment of weakness, he wished they were worrying a path down his arm, or his neck.

"How did it go?" she asked, breaking the growingly uncomfortable silence.

The question shook him from his reverie almost instantly, "Hmm," he swallowed the drink in his mouth, and Helen paid a little too much attention to the way his throat moved as it went down, "Well. I think."

"You have a lead?"

His expression skewed at that, "Not exactly. They are definitely the ones studying the Spear and they know where it is, but apart from that? Nothing concrete… _yet_," their eyes met, "Plenty to be suspicious of, though."

Helen nodded in understanding, mulling it over another draught of wine. The silence became as thick as last night, tugging the tension of the day's endeavours ever tighter in their nerves. Nikola fidgeted, fingers wriggling as though releasing a little of the movement he'd put on hold might ease the strain – all it did was draw Helen's eye. He didn't like the waiting, the subtle, cautious approach they'd taken to avoid escalating the situation – not one little bit. Hell, if it wasn't for the prospect of unlocking the secrets of his ancestor's language, Tesla would've ditched subtlety already: and despite the inevitable complaints at his recklessness, he knew Magnus would've been just as relieved that _someone_ had taken the 'irresponsible' gamble she was probably just dying to take.

"They're giving me some texts to work on," he explained on an outward breath.

"They've not finished translating yet?" she interrupted with a frown. They'd presumed that any research programme would be so far ahead of them that they not only understood the vampire language, but had translated everything they could get their grip on. To hear that they had not was both a relief… and a little disconcerting.

"Apparently they want to improve their _grammatical understanding of the language_."

The information awakened that startling glimmer of intellectual interest in her almost instantly, "Do you think they've hit a snag?"

He eyed her as though that was _exactly_ what he was thinking, "The papers will be from the monks who gave the Spear to the Emperor – I think they're looking for some more detail, something they might've outlined in its importance, or how it was transferred to them… they're probably looking for a way to turn it on," He smirked, but Helen was dragging him back to earth with that overly-cautionary look of hers.

Clearly she did not consider this a suitable topic to make light of. He sighed, glad that she didn't feel it necessary to explain why – he'd made it quite clear back in London that he had no desire to see the world enslaved to the warmongering empires of central Europe anymore than they did.

"I'll be able to verify precisely what the weapon is supposed to do, perhaps even the basic principles of how it works, from the documents they're giving me access to, but," he hissed out another sigh of concern, "it seems Hauler isn't going to make it easy for me to get near the Spear itself." His flinty gaze met hers in all seriousness.

"You asked him."

"I might have mentioned it," he shrugged coyly, "We were having lunch and he was getting rather talkative, then as soon as I mentioned it – he clammed up." He threw up his spare hand ingenuously, "Completely."

Helen nodded thoughtfully beneath the meaningful stare which had settled on her, "Is it even still in the Hofburg?"

"Officially speaking, yes – and even if it's all for show, they're not going to let anyone in who hasn't reached clearance."

"And if Hauler sets the clearance…"

"We might well have to go Griffin on them," he breathed with an added smirk.

She eyed him censoriously, "Only as a last resort Nikola."

"Are you sure?" he asked with mock seriousness, already knowing her response after James' constant drilling about keeping low profiles, "You know we could probably wrap this up quicker if we did."

"We can't afford-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." he waved off, ushering an indignant glare from Helen at having been cut off, "Besides," he breathed, sharing a calm he didn't quite possess, "whether it's in the Hofburg or Hauler's personal safe, it's not going to be leaving Vienna anytime soon." The comment was interesting enough to chip away at Helen's annoyance, giving him more than enough time for an explanation, "This research has been financing the department for the last two years – they need it, _here_."

_Two years, why did two years ring a bell?_ She wondered, "…when Hauler came into office?"

"Yeah," he took another large gulp of his wine.

"Hmm."

She was thinking about it, actually considering what they might be able to do to speed this up, as Nikola had suggested, without letting all hell loose. After the frustrating day she'd had it was a losing battle though, against a brain that wanted to stop thinking, to shut down and relax, just enjoy the wine – and yet she fought it anyway. Tesla watched, crossed leg starting to bounce over his knee slightly, in tune with his increasing urge to say something, to hear something new which might change this stultifying pace before it drove him mad.

"How did you fare amongst the rebels and artistes?" he asked casually, drawing Helen back instantaneously to the present.

She smiled at the turn of phrase, finally seeming to settle into her seat, "Not a great deal to go on… but its early days."

"Well then," He tugged on his jacket a little, readjusting it in an unconscious gesture, "we'll just have to see what _tomorrow_ brings."

At first she thought he was talking about her line of investigation, but slowly, the way he'd emphasised the word, she realised what he was really hinting at; "That's when you're going to start?"

"Yep."

She looked concernedly down at the floor and back, "They're not wasting any time…"

They shared a meaningful glance. Nikola knew what she was implying – they were close. If they were that keen to get him on the job, get the problem solved, they must have almost cracked it, which left them no closer to the truth and a whole lot shorter on time. Helen worried her lip again, an action he watched with inevitable fascination.

He was going to have to delay them with false information as long as he could, but it was only a temporary measure. Which meant that if the cafes produced no lines of enquiry before the weekend was up; they had to focus their efforts on the university. She would have to find a way in. _By hook or by crook_, she smiled to herself.

"You know who I _did_ meet today," Helen began, taking another sip, "in Café Landtmann?"

Nikola slowly smirked over his glass as though they were both part of some illicit conspiracy, half-shrugging with a little tilt of his head, "Antagonistic coffee drinkers, nostalgic for Lenin and all his Bolshevik friends?"

She didn't rise to it, her smile growing gently, eyes lighting-up in anticipation of his reaction, "Dr Freud."

"What that old hack?" he snorted, rolling his eyes derisively before giving her a slow-burning stare which might have set her pulse racing off down an avenue she didn't really want to think about – had it not been coupled with his sardonic pretence at concern. "He didn't have anything to say on your current fixation with _spears_ did he?"

Helen eyed him disapprovingly; unimpressed by the blatant innuendo, and the prickle of her skin as he'd said it, "No, but he might have something to say about _your_ _Ego_."

"Oh no doubt, and my actual desire for my own mother – how does that work anyway?"

"Some of his theories are… _controversial_," she allowed with a tilt of her head that exposed the long line of her neck for just a moment, "to say the least."

"_Newton's_ theories were controversial – Freud's just…" he struggled for a moment in finding the right word, a stall to his mental processing which Magnus always found entertaining. She watched, reigning in the biggest grin, as his face pulled several expressions at once to get at it, and left him floundering without any of his usual erudite poise.

"Admittedly," she argued quickly, before he could find whatever insult he was searching for, "he expands his case studies without enough data, his methodology is flawed and they never apply quite as neatly as he might like, but that doesn't mean there isn't some truth to them – however uncomfortable. You have to give him his due at least, Dr Freud revolutionised the way we treat neuroses. Lobotomising the hysterical seems barbaric to us," her hand started cutting through the argument as she spoke, "and yet without Freud's influence surgery could well have _remained_ the _natural recourse_ taught within the medical profession. His perceptiveness proved there was another way – he reminded people that we always have a choice."

Nikola's eyes had shifted off into the mid-distance in that put-out yet mischievous way that indicated he understood her, but wasn't about to agree or acknowledge she might have a point lest he lose face.

"He's a genius, in his own way," she continued, "one who deserves a lot more respect for his ideas…" she paused, long enough that it drew Nikola's gaze, before tipping her head in quiet admission that even she couldn't completely commit to that statement, "…most of them."

"Pfft, oh please Helen," his head snapped round fully, a snarky quip bringing out that devious slant to his lips as he leaned a little further forward, "it doesn't take a _genius_ to see phallic symbols in anything remotely _elongated_."

She blinked, surprised by the sudden and unexpectedly physical way her mind connected to the notion under his suggestive stare, her imagination filling in the blanks which that caddishly mercurial leer only hinted at. The warmth low in her body came unbidden; taunting her inability to override what was in the end only a natural reaction to the appropriate stimuli, and all beneath his scrutiny. As though he were waiting for that lady-like composure of hers to drop and reveal what she was thinking, feeling, as if he already knew – by God, she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.

"He and Professor Löwy were discussing the ancient Greeks, actually…" she continued primly, the levelness of her voice unwavering, leaving only the barest quirk of an eyebrow as any indication that his former comment had not gone unregistered. She finished a sip of her drink, daring him to test her again, "They'd been making a study of humanity's instincts towards life and death..." The barest mention of her earlier conversation with Freud had already set her mind spiralling into the darkness. She'd grown sober, ponderous at the way the psychoanalyst had so clearly hit upon that gnawing fear of living – of having to continue wading through mud and vermin, and guts – of having to face an endless future of people who would never understand what she had already lost, let alone what she would inevitably lose. "It was quite fascinating," was all she could say.

As she dipped her lips to the rim of her glass he couldn't have possibly missed it, clouding over her, like sulphuric smoke on the battlefield. He'd seen it in the eyes of boys pretending to be men, of soldiers who had clung to notions of honour and nation too hard, for too long. Worse still, he had seen that haunted look on her face before, and each time it only grew more poisonous, more willing to drown her, as it had always promised, and ultimately failed, to do.

"Yeah," he contributed glibly, automatically attempting to lighten the tone, "I'm more fascinated by that obsession of his with a civilisation which so obviously preferred the company of men…" she looked at him with instantaneous incredulity, which he relished with the cheekiest grin, "…oh, and their mothers, of course."

* * *

**Author's note**:

Oh man I am so sorry folks, don't worry this is not in cryo or anything, I'm just reaaally busy atm – so I also apologise for distinct lack of editing as I'm putting these up almost as soon as I'm happy with the jist of the dialogue/description/plot and paying less attention to niggles, repetitions, spelling, grammar, flow. Argh!

If you're wondering where I've been the last couple of weeks (nosey people) I put up another chapter of Sandstorms which is why I've not updated my profile.

Thanks to **Peridot5** and **Sparky** for the encouragement, and to everyone still sticking with this fic, thank you! Hope you enjoyed some Teslen-Time (oh, that's catchy), as we head deeper into the rabbit hole.

As an aside – anyone else see Luhrman's Gatsby? OMG freakin' awesome.


	12. Chapter 12 - Psychoanalysis

Saturday morning the rain had been so cold it had turned to sleet. Everyone was talking about it, fed up with the novelty of an exceptionally long winter now that April had finally rolled around. Like the train travellers faced with war, Helen found the disheartening weather made the people of Vienna unusually talkative.

From behind her copy of _Wiener Allgemeine Zeitung,_ she had been pleasantly surprised to hear names which Griffin had indicated were high on the Intelligence Service's list. Colonels, Senior Researchers, War Cabinet toadies: enjoying a coffee with friends and colleagues of less important positions. Their tongues weren't wagging, yet, but she had at least _found them_, and narrowed down the cafés worth frequenting to just three: Café Sperl, Café Central and Café Landtmann.

Friday, to her great relief, had been most productive, and now it was the weekend she had hoped Nikola and his extra-sensitive vampire hearing might join her. Nikola however was already so engrossed in the translations he'd been given that he'd brought them home to work on out of hours. Incapable as ever of turning off his brain in the face of a new discovery, he'd skipped dinner entirely, working right the way through the night and into the morning. It was a habit which had never failed to make Helen feel somewhat lazy back in Oxford, but for which she was now exceedingly grateful, allowing her, as it did, the chance to see the transcripts for herself.

Over a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, which she had _almost_ managed to resist entirely, they'd spent Friday evening working out what the Austrians already knew about the Spear of Destiny. Their base texts – which Nikola had been given in order to understand the context for his project – were already far more involved than anything west of the Rhine. The Geneva papers had been amongst the most detailed, and they had only really re-stated the fact that the weapon had originally been used to control the vampire's vast population of slaves. Meanwhile these Latin accounts alone described how _sanguine_ _vampiris_ had administered the secretion of an animal – whose name neither of them recognised – to the human population under their authority. It seemed that whenever the enslaved rebelled or became disorderly, the emperor released a 'silvery mist of potent air, from the tip of his spear' and the slaves would 'quieten like children'. They would become eager to please their masters, 'happy, content to do as they bid'.

For eons humanity considered this magic or divine intervention, until Abbot Alcuin, one of Charlemagne's closest advisors in the fight against the heathen emperors of old, realised what they had done to give that fine mist its strength. He also found a way of tainting the vampire's food with even more of the mixture than was already present in their diet – but as the vampires were resistant to its effects, Alcuin had to increase the density of the mist as well until it was a thick fog which covered the entire battlefield.

The monks lauded this as a great victory in their account, but it was clear to Helen and Tesla from the logistics alone, that this must have only worked for the humans on a local scale, perhaps with additional bolstering through the assistance of abnormals who were immune, or free humans who had never been subjected to the chemicals in the first place. They must have spent years deploying the weapon in battlefield after battlefield, until the ancient armies had been subdued, and slaughtered.

As Nikola had so glibly surmised last night: all the Austrians or Germans need do, was get the base compound into the water supply, activate the spear – which was presumably the dispersal mechanism for the second compound in the mist – cover the battlefield with that instead of mustard gas, and walk right through the enemy line. "Simple yet elegant," he'd said, with a hint of pride Helen hadn't much cared for, reminding him darkly that it would be the start of either an irresistible slaughter, or an enslavement of the mind, the likes of which the world had not seen for centuries.

Fact was, if the Viennese academics had, from their other sources, identified the animal whose secretion caused this effect – and they both agreed it must be some kind of abnormal – who knew how long they'd had the compound? If they had poured enough of it into the rivers and lakes, the seas… the whole world could be contaminated within months, leaving only the immunised axis to conquer all in their path.

Helen had spent the morning furiously trying to compile a list of abnormals known, or believed to have, bodily fluids with unusual properties. Chemical compounds, venom used for hunting, anything perception-altering, or with the effect of anaesthesia – likely candidates for the mystery abnormal referred to in the texts. Not for the first time on her jaunts abroad, she wished for her father's magnificent library, where there were whole sections dedicated to such criteria. Or even for the option of sending a wire to James, who knew the library like the back of his hand – but such communication was out of the question. With nothing but her memory to assist her, she managed a list of five by lunch time, and given herself a headache in the process.

So, here she was, at the entrance to Café Landtmann, for a change of scene, currently wondering how best to catch the attention of the man who'd just been addressed as Mr Unger by the waiter. A solitary figure in the corner, she had learned yesterday in Café Sperl that Unger was an aide to the recently ousted Prime Minister Ernst von Korber. Meaning he had been privy to secrets of national importance, and, she hoped, the secret development of war-ending weapons. At the very least, he could be her introduction to the man who, if she'd understood correctly from café gossip, still employed him.

"Dr Max!" for a second Helen didn't register the false name, "Dr Max," the familiar voice saluting her from her left was waving gently to get her attention, snapping her attention like a taut cord.

"Dr Freud," she tipped her head in acknowledgement, smiling softly, and hoping this was little more than a passing greeting – but he was already beckoning her. Sparing a glance at Unger she paused. She couldn't be so rude as to keep projecting across the room at the psychoanalyst. Unger' alarm would be instantly raised if he realised she had purposefully ignored people she knew just to make _his_ acquaintance. Cursing her luck, she took a steadying breath, making her way over to Freud as if it had been nothing but a pleasant surprise to see him again. Now she would have to engineer a way of escaping inconspicuously, before her real target upped and left. After all, Unger might not reappear for another week and, in light of recent developments, that was a week too long for Magnus.

Freud stood from his seat to shake her hand, oblivious, or perhaps purposefully ignoring, her slight delay in approaching them, "May I introduce you to some of my friends and associates?"

All hope for a swift meeting plummeted, leaving Helen battling to maintain her typically buoyant smile.

"Dr Abraham," Freud directed an open palm across to the more robust of the two middle-aged men in the seats across from him. Abraham smiled modestly, a faint amusement glimmering in his eyes as he greeted her, "who is on leave from the German army's _Psychiatric unit_," Sigmund's pride in that statement was evident, "and Dr Ferenczi."

"How do you do Dr Max?" Ferenczi offered, extending a hand to shake hers and distinctly reminding her of a small woodland animal: harmless, warm, and generally good natured.

"Pleasure to meet you Dr Ferenczi, and you Dr Abraham," out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw Mr Unger shifting to close his newspaper, and felt a surge of energy in her nerves. "I see you are busy doctor, I wouldn't want to intrude-"

Freud chuckled, setting himself back down a little closer to the wall, "Not at all!" he gestured to the now empty seat to his left, "It is why I got your attention madam, I think you'll find our discussion of great interest – in fact, I was just mentioning you. Our conversation the other day has had me preoccupied for many hours!"

Dr Abraham chuckled, leaning in a little, and fiddling with the spoon at the side of his coffee, "Freud, when are you _not_ preoccupied by the contents of a conversation?"

Magnus hesitated to sit down, but what reason could she have to refuse? If she made her excuses he would inevitably watch to see where she went and what business, exactly, would a German Doctor from Switzerland have with such a senior civil servant? Freud was too inquisitive to let such an observation slide and Mr Unger was completely in his line of sight. Damn. The flit of these considerations barrelling through her brain left her eying the unwanted chair with a somewhat blank stare, which Freud looked about ready to comment on until she promptly sat down, with a short reassuring smile.

At least from this position she could see that Unger was still half-way through his coffee and very much engrossed in his paper. With any luck he'd spend a good half hour more fixated on the black and white of the press, but knowing that still didn't ease the crick developing in Magnus' rigidly upright spine.

"I was considering again your comment that the conflicts we have with the will to die were the source of what we term 'mourning'…" she heard Freud begin, "and actually not just that, I think, but feelings of melancholia too."

"Which we were just debating," Abrahams added, nodding towards her in engagement, "because I think Freud's jumping a little ahead of himself here."

"Ah, I see what you were suggesting Karl – that the fixations of a melancholic subject are founded on something less substantial."

"It makes a critical difference, I think." Abrahams started gesturing as he responded, "If the source of your sadness isn't something you can readily pin point, something you can test, or see, or validate in some physical way."

"They become ghosts," Dr Ferenczi piped up gently, his voice permeating Helen's current plan to excuse herself for the bathrooms located just beyond Unger' position, "something to fear."

"An excellent analogy," Freud chimed in.

"You know this reminds me of patients who have become fixated with _morbid_ subjects," Abrahams turned towards Helen, forcing her glazed eyes back from the layout of the room, into his own, "and far from finding them terrifying in some way, they derive some kind of pleasure or beauty out of them. As if they're taking the fear of death, and turning it on its head – they're saying, no, this is not ugly, this is beautiful. They cope with the challenge to their own mortality by moving their fear of it onto an object – physical or intellectual – which can be handled, understood… verified."

Helen suddenly realised that his address was an invitation to join the conversation, "…and controlled?" she responded a little distractedly, "Like a weapon."

"Dr Max?"

She turned to Freud automatically, "If you can control your fear, you can turn the threat of it away from you. So… then you could turn it onto someone else, and use it against them." Her lips felt more hollow as she spoke from experience, acutely aware of the fact that in addressing him she'd lost sight of Unger, "Every time we pick up a weapon," she continued, taking a reassuring breath of air, "that is exactly what we are doing" her head tilted momentarily, "pointing the threat back into someone else's face." Glancing at Abrahams, she was relieved to catch sight of the civil servant behind him, and see he remained precisely where she had left him. Nevertheless, there was something different. The rattle of plates from the service area created a crescendo above the swell of conversation, as if a train had passed, or a shell – there had certainly been a change to his table, but she couldn't quite tell what. A glass, a spoon… a bill?

"So," Dr Ferenczi began in the amazed disquiet she had unwittingly created with the precision of her insight, "by understanding and controlling an object representing one's fear – in this case, of death – we create a desire for it which our libido, even whilst trying to suppress our drive to die, can accept."

"A desire for power is natural;" Freud jumped in, nodding sagely, "therefore you allow yourself an acceptable means through which you may desire death. Classic displacement."

"One of my patients implied the very same," Abraham added sincerely, "he returned from the front, uninjured in body, but disorientated in mind – and he has great trouble over one incident in particular; it really sticks to him, comes up in our sessions over and over again. He allowed his gun to fall from his hands, you see, as they approached the enemy…"

_The enemy always approached _them_ in Verdun,_ Magnus remembered, or it had seemed that way at after week of silence, then days of shells so that you knew… you _knew_ they were finally coming.

In the corner Unger turned the page of his paper, the rustle of it buried beneath the growing raucous of the café. His face scrunched up in disagreement with whatever titbit the journalists had thrown his way, and Helen wondered what lengths he would go to, to put a stop to that, to end it all.

"…Now it was just the stress of the attack on his nervous system" Abraham continued, "causing a slight spasm in his muscles that relinquished his grip, but it haunts him. The fact that he let go of the one item he had in his own defence. He'd become powerless, in an instant, forced to confront death without it…"

There was no rhyme, or reason to death, Helen had known that. Even before the sight of the wastelands this war had created, where even the crows were risking their lives to peck at the cold corpses rotting in the humid swelter. What mattered was how you reacted to it – whether you stood idly by and let it happen, or tried, _tried_ to do the right thing. As blood poured out of someone's arteries, or as they shoved a gun into your face, letting the enemy asleep at your feet live because you couldn't give in to the logic that they still posed a very real threat to you whenever they eventually awoke.

"…and he hadn't been killed. That's the interesting thing. What wounds my patient, is not that he dropped the weapon and fumbled like a buffoon to pick it up – though it adds to the embarrassment – not the fact that he couldn't shoot and might have saved one of his platoon's life in doing so, or even that he let down his fellow soldiers. What he vocalises most is this sense that he _should_ have died because of this error, as others had, as others who hadn't even made such a mistake did, and yet… _he_ – the fool who dropped his gun – survived."

Helen's throat dried at the memory, slowly choking her on that same epiphany… that death turned on a dime. The realisation, slow and stealthy, that had hit her with the same sharpness as the icy cold water she'd nearly drowned in not five years ago… to the month. The sickening fact that she existed through chance, the sensation she had worked so hard to suppress, to reason herself away from – that unbidden, yet lingering voice in the back of her mind which spitefully reminded her that others, more deserving of life, had suffered and died in her place time and time again. God she hadn't dwelt on that in years, but there it was, springing from her subconscious as if determined to make her reveal herself, to break the deception and cause her own, timely end in some secret interrogation cell for spies.

She swallowed them down, desperately holding onto the present, the now, the need to find a way out of this trip through memory lane and over to Mr Unger with his irritated frown and bristly moustache.

"…he lost all perspective. Thrown into chaos by the fact that he had momentarily relinquished his control over an item which, as Dr Max so eloquently described, he had imbued with this meaning – his fear of death…"

Death wasn't something Helen feared. The finality, the end; she had lived more than her share of years and death was only a natural process, but that didn't mean she wouldn't fight to avoid it. She had to. She had to keep going on. No, what scared her in the quietest hours, on the edge of sleep, was _knowing_ that in time she would be forced to let go of everyone and everything she held dear, one by one, as eternity marched ever forwards. That every magnificent bond she made would, in time, be broken and there was nothing she could do.

Abraham's monologue faded from her ears, subsumed by the faces of the Frenchmen she'd served with: names she had never bothered to learn, out of that very fear. Of getting too close to people who were already dead. So that when their faces were obliterated by bullets, their limbs ripped off by shrapnel, their eyes hollowed out and their hands covered in other people's blood… she closed her eyes against the suddenly visceral image which sprang to mind, an amalgamation of so many moments. The sound of china and glass on metal trays provided the thunder of artillery, machine guns – her hand beginning to shake as it did the day they went to rescue the abnormals on the other side of No Man's Land.

Her hand responded quickly, gripping the other on her lap, to steady it, as she forced her eyes open and let the light flood in, willing her lungs to breathe steadily, in, out, in and out. She felt almost split in two: one half-trembling childishly, every instinct telling her to run, the other trying to keep control, measuring the sudden palpitations, reminding her to keep calm lest someone see. That second part made a hawkish sweep around the table, making sure the men surrounding her really _were_ so consumed in their discussion that they had missed the shot of panic in her eyes, the subtle tremor of her limbs.

"…so empowering about being able to hold death in one's hands – figuratively or literally."

"Ah, Löwy!" Freud called over to the Professor who had, apparently, just arrived through the café's arched doors, "You escaped I see."

To Helen's relief it threw their attention very far away from her episode – a physical symptom she could no longer ignore, even if she was going to keep such unnerving medical reactions very much to herself. She looked back at the corner, to see Unger receive another coffee from the young waiter. The very fact gave her something to concentrate on that did not include the violence of war: a change of circumstance which was more than just a little fortunate. All she needed to do was to excuse herself, as soon as was polite, and perhaps she wouldn't need to wait for another chance.

Löwy, whom she had all-but forgotten in that brief moment, pulled up another chair next to her, raising up his hand to the waiter as he seated himself. "Dr Max," he smiled, shaking her hand, "I did not expect to see you again."

"I'm afraid I am becoming something of a regular Professor," she smiled generously, with a smoothness she didn't feel, and a steadiness in her limbs which was nothing more than a holding of breath.

He barely acknowledged her anyway, turning over quickly for his friends in a way Helen didn't much care for, "I hear you are continuing your morbid topic of study Sigmund – you'd like the topic of my next lecture."

"Oh?" Abraham's solid eyebrow bent in interest.

"Hmm, 'The Ancient Art of Power: Conquerors Over Death.'"

"A rather grand title," Ferenczi commented neutrally over the rim of his cup.

"I must say _I_ am intrigued," Abraham said, "surely you must cover the Egyptian civilisation?"

"Well yes, though my own expertise favour the Greco-Roman world. It enables one to make some _fascinating_ ruminations about the transition into a Christian-dominated Europe."

Freud chuckled, "I'm sure."

It was all rather interesting, but Magnus had far bigger fish to fry and now really did seem the opportune moment.

"What other religion," Löwy jumped in, preventing her from making her pretty excuses, "could take the symbols of Roman power and so completely subsume them? Take for example the Cross-"

"Roman justice," Freud illustrated on his behalf, enjoying the interplay of ideas.

"The spear which pierced Christ's side…"

Helen was stunned in her seat, every sense instinctively swinging towards the beady archaeologist. Had he just mentioned…?

"The Roman war machine," Freud posited proudly with a flick of his wrist.

"Mmhm," Abraham added excitedly, "see how the Romans had already turned death into power. Until the symbol itself was powerful enough to take on an entirely new meaning, a message of hope – intimately associated with our anxieties over death. No doubt as many miraculous medical recoveries have been attributed to the so-called Spear of Destiny as the hundred-thousand pieces of the cross-"

The men laughed around her. Helen gave a short, if somewhat distracted, smile in agreement – convincing herself that her sudden interest in Löwy's somewhat throw-away statement was nothing more than a product of her own hyper-sensitivity to anything even vaguely related to the Spear. Silly really, of course he'd think of it as an example – the Holy Lance was one of Vienna's most famous artefacts, a source of national pride.

Thinking to stand and thereby announce her departure to pursue a more realistic line of enquiry, Magnus was once again cut short by Löwy's quick response.

"Well I thought the same," he continued blithely on, "but Professor Hauler set me straight on that one."

He had no idea of the effect that singular name had had on the woman sat next to him. Helen blinked, not quite sure she'd heard correctly… but he had. He'd mentioned Professor Hauler.

"The miracles associated with the Holy Lance are almost uniformly victories in battle."

"How interesting," Freud sped on with a philosophical proclivity, "quite unique when you consider that most medieval relics are said to have healed the sick... conquered death on a personal scale, not by killing someone else."

Magnus let the ramifications of that simple mention of Hauler's name sink in. Did the archaeologist know him on a professional basis? Had they studied the Spear together? He wasn't amongst the litany of academics Nikola had mentioned – and he had not been remiss in that department. Friday evening he had compiled an extensive list of the department in its entirety from undergraduates to Hauler himself, and Helen trusted his eidetic memory like few things in this world. So either Löwy was an enthusiast who had barely touched upon the truth or… Hauler had neglected to reveal his involvement for a reason.

"How very _un_-Christian," Dr Abraham chuckled ironically.

"Is that because the state used it to legitimise itself Professor," Helen asked astutely, focusing on Löwy with renewed clarity, "or because the earliest Christians were turning the power of their oppressors against them? Inverting the purpose of their own weapon in their fight for freedom?"

Löwy regarded her a moment longer than was strictly necessary for the formation of an answer – especially considering how quick off the mark he had been here-to-fore – as if she had said something truly unexpected but no less intriguing. It was her language, she was sure of it. Anyone who had read those texts would know precisely what she was insinuating… and she was getting the strongest impression that he understood her meaning implicitly.

He shrugged a little, a hesitant smile creeping in, "The Spear is unique amongst relics," he said, "Bones, nails, blood, wood from the cross – but only this one is a weapon. I'm sure its physical form, more than anything else, has affected its properties in the minds of those who believed in its power. It's just the natural logic of association."

The way he'd dodged the use and purpose of the Spear did not escape her notice. It was a cagey response, too short for his usual explanations and _ruminations_ on the topic – a fact that must have been as obvious to him as her.

"Nails are still somewhat associated with medicine and healing though," Ferenczi pointed out, "wouldn't you say?"

"Not at all," the Professor replied, "Nails were used in surgery until man learned better – to exercise ill humours. Think on the Egyptians, and their god of the afterlife. If Jackals didn't go sniffing around corpses and carrion for scraps, and dig themselves shelter in the ground, I have no doubt Anubis would've been a vulture instead."

Deftly, purposefully moving the discussion on – away from the Spear – Helen got the distinct impression that the Professor was keen to avoid the topic. Curious, she remained where she was just a little longer, trying to get something more concrete out of him that might provide evidence in support of her suspicions. The natural flow of conversation, however, made an inexorable turn, and gradually Helen realised she would be getting nothing useful out of him… for today at least. Indeed, her original target might be a better use of her time, but Mr Unger was long gone – his seat empty, paper abandoned. She could almost hear Watson's complaints clear as day. The same pointed, frustrated sentiment repeated on an almost annual basis, even when he never used the words: 'There you go again, jumping off a cliff, and hoping you sprout wings!'

The censure didn't make her as angry as it used to, they both knew she wasn't as blind as he suggested, even where John was concerned, but she couldn't help feeling the sting of it when she suspected that this time, he might have been right. Why had she allowed herself to be distracted? To chase something so insubstantial as a _feeling_ that Löwy had something to hide over the concrete fact of Mr Umber's closeness to the decision makers, the power wielders.

Frustrated, she continued to ingratiate herself with Löwy until the earlier moment between them was convivially forgotten – she hoped – at least then she wouldn't raise their suspicions unnecessarily. Even so, uncertainty crept in on her. A worrisome vacant feeling that her gut might not be quite as trustworthy, as useful to her, she had come to depend upon. She had deceived yes, lied, certainly, but espionage was a very different game. Surrounded by her own lies, and their lies, and the lies people told themselves, there was no marker she could trust, no way of _knowing_ whether or not her instincts hadn't been shot all to hell in the crossfire.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Holy kermony, I am soooo sorry for the hiatus here folks but the situation really isn't improving at work so I am super pooped by RL and thereby drained of all creative energy. :( *Exceedingly sad face.* I really hope that with this chapter you can forgive me – look PLOT, actual plot! Too much? I don't know. I felt like I gave you a bit of an info dump there at the start, and thought, hey, you know what – maybe you should have had Tesla and Helen reading over the papers in the last scene instead of joking about Freud! Gah, but still… it's done now. Writing this chapter has altered (somewhat) how I'm structuring future chapters, I still haven't written the next chapter as I was hoping to, but I have made a start and all I will say is… Tesla and Dr Richter :) I know how annoying it can be when you want to know what happens next and there are months between updates, and if there are gaps (big ones like this time) between posts all I can say is please, don't give up on me, and if you keep on reading you are awesome sauce so thank you!

**cportera**: Thank you for the review! Hope you're enjoying the randomness of my pintrest. :)


	13. Chapter 13 - Judith

Nikola barely noticed the cold. Years of having to put up with that never-completely-warm feeling in the windy Croatian dwellings of his youth had made him largely indifferent to the temperature of fire-less study rooms… well, when his mind was occupied at least. There was nothing like an intellectual conundrum or impending international crisis to eliminate your problems in life, great or small.

Young Mr Frauwallner, on the other hand, had clearly had a warmer childhood. After hours of continuously shuffling in his seat to rekindle some warmth, he had moved onto other methods: vigorously rubbing his hands together at frustratingly _irregular_ intervals, creating a sound about as annoying to Tesla as the scrape of sandpaper.

Glancing over glaringly at the linguistic prodigy for the third such offence, the lad had finally managed to restrain himself by sitting on the offending appendages between each turn of the page. Though Nikola was certain the peace would not last.

"Anyone would think it was February," Frauwallner tentatively cheered in little more than a mumble, his furtive bespectacled eyes dipping back nervously to his page, without daring to let the new professor out of his sight.

"Or, that when we arbitrarily assigned 12 months to the year we somehow gained the ability to dictate the weather as well."

The hesitation on the undergraduate's face made Nikola's eyes roll. Honestly, was sarcasm a foreign concept amongst the young? He didn't give a damn whether it was a week into April, Easter, and the trees remained reluctant to bud – nature wasn't exactly renowned for its obedience. What _mattered_ was the fact that it had been almost a week since he'd taken up his position, and he still hadn't cracked the vampire script, or figured out how the hell this device would actually work – let alone found the location of whatever reconstruction they were conducting, or the composition of the abnormal compound. Even _with_ Helen's help, progress was excruciatingly slow, and it was beginning to severely affect his mood.

Soon after Magnus had acquainted him with her suspicions regarding Professor Löwy, Nikola had tried Hauler again with the question of whether he might be able to see the Spear itself in the Hofburg. This time he'd cobbled together a plausible excuse, claiming that whilst comparing his script to the portion assigned to Fridolin he thought there might be a phrase directly quoted from the Spear. So he needed to see it, in the flesh, to accurately examine whether his transcript contained errors which had lead him on a merry dance, or whether he really had discovered something worth investigating. It was a completely fabricated excuse, but still! The vulture's response?

_"All in good time Mandić, all in good time_."

He wouldn't be drawn into much of an explanation as to the why, either, only iterating that the transcripts would be accurate enough to ascertain whether this theory of his was sound.

Losing patience, Nikola had taken matters into his own hands and applied to the Hofburg direct to see the Spear for himself. He was rejected, of course. The old Professor hadn't said anything about this attempt to circumvent him... yet, but there had been moments of careful consideration, long stares in his direction that made Nikola almost certain that he knew. The silence worried him more than confrontation ever could, as if the old man was simply waiting for him to slip up and provide the proof he needed to brand him a traitor.

In the quiet a slight shift of air, the hushed movement of the door, caught Tesla's attention. He did not _wonder_ who it was stepping through, or even take a look; Dr Richter had opened more than enough doors with Mr Frauwallner around that he had become used to the particular sound of her step. Familiar with the way she gave herself only the minimum amount of space to pass through before it closed on her, like a leaf caught up in the draught. If he'd been human, like her erstwhile protégé, he might have missed such a subtle entrance. Instead, he pretended to be engrossed in his work and avoid her acknowledgement over the student under her instruction.

The almost herbivorous Frauwallner, whose very mention had caused such a stir between Richter and Hauler the day Nikola had arrived, was a rather talented linguist, as it turned out. As they had grown more convivial, the Doctor regaled him with the story of the boy's first seminar on her course. The way he'd cottoned on so succinctly to the nuances of the language. She'd given him texts vaguely relating to the Spear to work on before the second week was over, something to test his limits, and what he'd returned had been extraordinarily accurate. Professor Hauler had taken exception to it, of course – Richter had not sought his approval in the first place, and then the young man had made these _peripheral papers_, as she'd described them, the focus of his all-too-public-thesis. Still, she considered the boy's future worth the hassle.

She was _fiercely_ defensive over Frauwallner – like a lioness with a cub, and when Nikola had asked why the young man wasn't at the Front it became all-too clear _why_... she knew. She _knew_ what he could only logically surmise from Frauwallner's nervy, jittery response to the same question. He wasn't the under-age genius he claimed to be, taking on higher education before he was old enough to enlist but rather, decidedly _of_ age, and dodging conscription.

Judging from the way Hauler spoke about the kid Nikola had a feeling he didn't know. Any opportunity to get rid of him, especially one which would put Richter in trouble... the Professor would've jumped at the chance. Instead he had only lamented confidentially – over coffee – the rather irksome fact that, had he engaged the ferocious pedagogue in an open argument that day, or on any day since, he would have raised all hell for nothing. Quite frankly, he didn't have had a leg to stand on and she knew it. Richter had taken a calculated risk - the papers weren't enough to raise anybody's unwarranted interest in their core research - and Frauwallner had proven himself of little threat. If anything, he was more than capable of assisting them and, in the end, Hauler had all-but admitted to Tesla that this whole disagreement came down to his personal dislike for Elise. Or rather, the thought of her having _any _say over _his _research.

"Mr Frauwallner," Richter hailed with a smile which always showed the effort of moving within her stiff body, "how goes the research?"

The protégé lifted his head, dark eyes suddenly alive with the excitement of new theories and hypotheses which Nikola thought worth a moment's pause from the text he'd been staring at - if only to witness Richter whittle his reasoning down to its bare bones. The Doctor wasn't the sort to do her apprentice the disservice of pulling her academic punches.

"Going well... I think," Frauwallner began, rallying himself with a considered glance at his transcripts, "I mean..."

The response made Elise frown as she rounded behind the student's chair, "Well - out with it Erich," she put in that practical tone of hers, now able to see his work from over his shoulder, and sparing a glance at Nikola across the table. "You'll have Professor Mandić on the edge of his seat."

Tesla couldn't help but scoff, and pretend that he was returning to his own work.

"Hmm, yes, well... I," Mr Frauwallner seemed flummoxed for a moment but gathered himself up, "I was taking another look at the structure of the apparent sentence and... maybe, well I thought maybe we've been looking at this all wrong?"

Nikola's head had already tipped up from his book in interest, though he tried not to draw attention to the fact that he was listening in.

"Go on."

The lad hesitantly passed her a loose sheet of paper - his working copy - finger pointing to a specific section of the book laid out before him, "We've been treating this as though it's proto-Latin or more likely, proto-Greek in origin... but the characters actually remind me more of a book I read last summer by Rawlinson - look. The structure too - it, it looks closer to a Semitic language doesn't it?" Frauwallner strained to look back at her, "Like Hebrew... or... Arabic?"

_Ancient Assyrian_, Nikola frowned at the script laid out right in front of him. Cuneiform. How had he not seen it before? Of course! Of course their language would be of an older root, he should've seen that, should've hunted down the oldest language known to man and just studied it inside out. It wasn't strictly speaking an early Medieval or even Roman invention; they had no idea how long his ancestors might've been using the spear before Alcuin got his mitts on it. Why hadn't he just gone back as far as they could possibly go linguistically?

Pulling out the entirety of the vampire script he'd been given from underneath his pile of books, Nikola's eyes roved quickly across the page. The only Semitic language he had even the barest knowledge of was Hebrew, but he knew that root words behaved differently to Latin. In Hebrew for instance words like read, reader, reading aren't created by slapping on a different suffix, but by inserting vowels between the stem consonants. That, and the fact that they read backwards, was about all he'd bothered to learn from his biblically-minded father before losing interest. Especially once he'd decided Hebrew wasn't going to help him as much as Latin, German, French or even English in escaping the backwater that was Smiljan. He really needed to get his hands on a few books.

"_Nicolaus_?" She dragged on the adopted version of his name as if he were a child whispering at the back of the class. His first name too – an informal address he wasn't particularly used to from the taut philologist, though he had given her permission to do so on more than one occasion.

"Huh?" He glanced at her instantly, his face the picture of almost-innocence despite the galling frustration of not being free to go right ahead and chase this new possibility until it yielded results. After all, if he got up and looked for a book _now _it would look exactly like what it was: that he'd seen a way to unravel it, like a puzzle missing a couple of pieces that had gotten lost somewhere beneath the furniture. Only now he knew where to find them... and so did they. The only question was who would get a working knowledge of this language first, and there was no way he was going to give away even the slightest advantage if he could help it. Not when he had no way of _knowing_ whether Richter was merely humouring her student's 'discovery', or actually hearing this theory for the very first time. No one in this department had handed him a 'how to guide' for what they may or may not have already figured out, and he suspected it was a test. Elise in particular had never been all that forthcoming, even with the information she gave quite willingly away, and now she was levelling him with a straight, steady interest, somewhat akin to the scrutiny one might direct on a sample beneath a microscope. He got the feeling she'd been watching him long enough, with that canny, suspicious look, to notice he was more interested in what the pipsqueak had just said than he cared to let on.

"Do you have anything to add Professor?" The sort of disarming smile Helen might've attached to such a challenge was entirely absent – Richter wasn't the charming sort. She asked him, as if there wasn't an ulterior motive in sight, only a simple request for the second opinion of a colleague and nothing more. Nikola, however, was very far from being so naïve as to think she wasn't fishing for something more than that.

"Not really," he replied matter-of-factly, casually moving his papers around as though that was all he had been up to. "It's an interesting theory," he added, settling back to his notes and marking the now obvious flaws until such time as he could retrieve the information he needed.

Elise pressed her lips together, continuing to watch him avoid both the unspoken point and her gaze, under the pretence of work. In front of her Mr Frauwallner shifted self-consciously in his seat, with his wide young eyes wondering quite plainly what the subtext to this conversation _really_ was. Richter wasn't sure she could've given him an answer, and after one last glance at the unusual Serb, she returned her full attention to the student's progress.

Nikola could practically feel the passing of her eyes as he sat there; fighting the numerous negative scenarios and possibilities his imagination was feeding him as to what she would do next. His muscles bunched, relaxing only slightly at the sound of her voice.

"I believe Professor Mandić is right Erich... it is a _very _interesting theory. Have you gotten anywhere with it?"

"Well, I've only just started learning the Semitic languages, actually, so no. Not really. I'm trying to take note of common grammatical themes, to identify any potential patterns - correlate them with the apparent punctuation in the script as I go."

She nodded with a small smile, a slight indication of pride far too modest for what she actually felt, "Good. That sounds promising." She caught 'Mandić' out of the corner of her eye, paused in motion and listening-in again, contemplating what Frauwallner had just said. Something shifted in his expression, small, indescribable, but she got the distinct impression he had just dismissed something in his head. "Perhaps you and the Professor should work together on this new theory," Elise suggested, addressing her student, but watching the object of her sentence as if he might somehow reveal himself.

Tesla turned on her, instantly put out - he didn't need jiffle-pants over there, or anybody else for that matter, holding him back on this one.

"Or not. What if it's a dead end?" he pointed out with just enough ego to make the entirely valid point completely obnoxious, "We can't hold back the research by a year just because you have a hunch that the wunderkind here is right." Then he raised an eyebrow at her, smirking directly at what he was about to say, "Whatever would Hauler say?"

The twist of her lips smacked of resentment and respect all in one at the use of that particular card – even if he hadn't said it with any great sincerity.

"So long as you're sure Professor," she placed her hands together at the front of her body, "I'm sure you'll enjoy Frauwallner's paper on the topic. When he completely translates the segment he's been given, and the Spear, I'm sure Hauler will be more than pleased to offer him a vacant seat in the department."

Nikola scoffed automatically, though there was something in the way she'd said it which didn't sit right with the threat… "Presuming he gets there first," he returned cockily, taking this perfect opportunity to get up from his seat and head for the bookshelves. He picked up his more vital notes as he did so, to prevent prying eyes, unable to shake the feeling that perhaps, maybe, this theory really was as revelatory to her as the rest of them.

"You should be careful Mr Mandić," Nikola turned towards the darkly amused tone lurking beneath the congenial surface, a bitter undercurrent to a knowing smile of which he was immediately wary, "of those who have more to prove..."

He grew straighter – there was something more she wanted to say, a suspicion she wanted to voice but didn't, and if that pet student of hers had a brain cell, he'd have cottoned on to it too by now. So he grinned like the devil, "And who has more to prove than a new Professor freshly challenged by a student barely out of diapers?" He threw them an ironic look, but beneath the bravado remained a niggling doubt – the sitting tension of being caught out, just a little. A hunch, a detail which, even as he swanned out of the room, had not completely passed Elise Richter's notice.

"Did... did he mean me?" Frauwallner asked belatedly, sounding a little stunned at the extent of the Professor's rudeness.

Elise continued to stare pensively at the door. It appeared Mr Mandić was starting to show his truer colours.

* * *

**Author's Note:** you might think to yourself, come on Tesla, how did you _not_ get the Assyrian connection! But way I see it, this is his first real attempt at going back to the original sources and piecing together his ancestry using the archaeology too, rather than the stories recounted in abnormal and normal history books. Also, cuneiform had only been translated in the mid-19th century and then, like today, there were precious few people in the world who could read it fluently. Classics like Latin and Greek, even Egyptian, were far more common ancient languages to know or think of when delving into the ancient world.

Plus Helen describes the vampires very early on as the "Caesars, the Pharaohs of civilisation" – not the Kings of Mesopotamia – it stands to reason if that's her base description of them that early looks into _sanguine vampiris_ were a) based on sources written by the humans who eradicated them and obliterated so much of their original work – therefore biased and not quite so long-sighted as Ancient Assyria, and b) largely focused on Rome and Egypt which, let's not forget, was not as well-explored in the early 20th century as they are today.

Gregory is missing by this point, and even though he'd been to Bhalasaam, even if they had still been using the same language or script, even if he had become fluent – do you really think he'd have recorded it and left it somewhere Nikola, or a rather too-adventurous-for-her-own-good Helen, or too-inquisitive James might find it so soon after… events, when the whole point of going there had been to remove temptation from their grasp? I don't think so.

Anyways, this isn't so much a justification as well, I thought about it, and it's interesting (to me, lol), trying to reconstruct so much from titbits in the show, so I'm going to bother you all with my findings. :D

In other news, not entirely happy with my descriptions in this, but at this stage getting the story and the characters to you guys is more important – so forgive any very boring descriptors. :) Some of you might notice I've made some slight edits in earlier chapters to accommodate this one, so apologies if this causes some 'huh?' moments because of some scraps of information established before but I'm hoping most of you won't notice… except, I just told you. :D Cue awkward Foss-smile.

As ever thank you to all the readers, reviewers and followers!

**Sparky** – glad you enjoyed Freud!

**Arachelle905 **– Your comment was highly motivational! Thank you so much – am always happy to provide breakfast entertainment and, as you can see… plenty more Tesla to come :) He's just so demanding.

**JanSuch** – I'm sorry it didn't come that much faster! :( But thanks for your PMs, the encouragement certainly keeps me at it – I know, I know, need plot now… more plot… I shall go write more. :)

**Peridot5** – thank you for the lovely compliments. Saving the world is what they… well, what Magnus does. ;) And yeah I always thought WW1 made the most sense for Vienna.

**R.J.** – Welcome on board! :) No seriously though, thanks for taking the time to review, it means a lot to hear from people who are enjoying it… and even if they're not, something is better than silence right.

Until next time!


	14. Chapter 14 - Ringstraβe

Löwy hadn't shown up for days now, and Helen was reluctant to seek him out, more than conscious of how it might appear to any eager eyes or ears. She'd focused instead on identifying the abnormal compound mentioned in Nikola's manuscripts, cross-referencing all her likely candidates and hoping to find some mention of them in the depths of the Austrian National Library - which just so happened to be located at the Hofburg Palace.

It was strange, knowing you were so close and yet so very far from the object of your mission. She supposed it was the reason Nigel couldn't ever seem to give up thieving for very long, whether it was for altruistic or personal gain. His whole life must feel like this. A constant temptation to act, because you know you _could_ - it was simply a matter of living with the consequences. She was not fool enough to think, however, that if she broke into the archives she would get away with it for long enough to get back to Britain - not if the Spear was that important to their plans. Not even with Nikola's help.

The hours she spent in the almost theatrical Baroque library, however, had gone some way towards cajoling her memory into giving her something useful. It was just such a slow task. Like old times really, scouring through the Bodleian Library, in the buried dusty tomes, or long-forgotten pages of Oxford's antique collection, for some hint of the hidden world of abnormals her father had opened up for her. Only this time, the boys weren't there to interrupt her with a slew of not-entirely-resented distractions, which was probably why she'd gotten as far as actually identifying a likely candidate in amongst the meandering mentions of abnormalities in an unfamiliar library.

Two problems with Taminsails though: the amphibious species was native to the Indian Sub-continent, not Europe, and she wasn't entirely sure whether the secretion from their glands would react as the manuscripts had described with another compound. She needed a sample and a lab to take this any further, which meant finding an abnormal dealer… something which, she realised all-too belatedly, is precisely what their enemies would have had to of done if they'd put this into production.

So, after berating herself with the very fact that James would have been all over such a lead like a rash _days _ago, Magnus had thrown herself into the search for Vienna's abnormal community. They'd be there, even if they were hidden, and if being head of the Sanctuary had taught her anything, it was that injured abnormals were always the first to reveal themselves. So she'd started going methodically from hospital to hospital, asking staff about any unusual cases they might have, under the guise of a freelance writer looking for something the voyeuristic public would devour. That way she didn't have to hide the medical degree, or her curiosity, and despite the occasional comment about _women doctors_ not being practical enough to practice, the medical staff and junior doctors in particular were rather forthcoming. Some cases had been intriguing, not least a number of those embarrassing emergencies involving lodged objects so common to overnight staff - but nothing abnormal, as yet.

Her routine now consisted of going to the library in the mornings and visiting the hospitals in the afternoon, immediately after frequenting the cafe in the hopes of catching Löwy. The archaeologist remained a no-show, but Helen had hardly wasted her time waiting - in fact, she'd managed to corner some of the very people she had set out to find when she arrived in the city: Unger, Colonel von Bolfras, even Count Burián's clerk.

Von Bolfras, though high in government, was a complete write off - something of a belligerent anti-womanist he'd barely given her the time of day. Unger was stand-off-ish, possessing a natural suspicion which had made their encounter tentative but not impossible - Count Burián's clerk, Herr Spitzmüller was a cagey fellow too, she had the feeling it was just a matter of gaining their trust. Only problem with that was time - spying was a game for the patient, and Helen was finding that she wasn't quite as full of that particular quality as she had always considered herself to be.

Making contact with even one of these men was something of a coup however, one she had not failed to rub in whenever Nikola started playing up their cover story... or forgetting to bathe. Nevertheless she was starting to think that in light of their discoveries it would be the abnormals of the city who'd help them get to the bottom of all this.

She'd sleep better if she got something more out of the archaeologist too, she was sure of it. There was this constant nagging feeling, like there had been during the mystery that had brought Spring-Heeled Jack to their door. She just couldn't put her finger on what it was, and every time she _tried _she just couldn't help but be reminded of the day Löwy had let slip his association with Hauler.

That hunch was precisely why she kept coming to Cafe Landtmann, why she was sat here, enjoying a fine cup of tea while everyone else drank coffee, occasionally whiling away those few hours in the company of Freud and his Psychoanalysts. She nodded to the waiter as he passed, the same lad who had served her on her first visit, and he smiled back. It was that strange unspoken connection - not based on any form of actual acquaintance, just the regular pattern of commercial transactions between them: the same tea, at different tables, occasionally a pastry, and then always a small tip. In this climate of war and poverty the boy remembered tippers.

Stirring her cup Helen glanced down, watching the perfectly coloured liquid as it swirled into a storm before taking the spoon away. She looked up to take a sip of the warm drink.

"Löwy?" the surprise in her voice was genuine - as was her smile at the man who had happened to appear before her.

He seemed stunned to see her there, a little harried by her tone, but it melted into a particularly guarded smile that exuded something like warmth, "Dr Max I-"

"I was hoping you might show up today," she began brightly. No point in being coy about this - they were supposed to be friends, weren't they, or at least friendly acquaintances? Sure enough the bold gambit caught Löwy's interest.

His brow furrowed, lips curling in an uncertain smile in his small, square face. "Really? And why is that?"

Magnus smiled cleverly, softly, as if she knew that what she had was worth the moment of revealing, "Please," she extended a hand to the only other seat at her table, blowing the heat from her cup, "take a seat."

Löwy's eyes regarded the chair and the doctor for a moment, "Yes, why not?" he smiled briefly at her, taking her up on the offer and running his hands along the brim of the hat he was holding, "I was only visiting for a brief coffee anyway."

"A Grosser Brauner?"

He seemed surprised at her convivial demeanour, "No, actually," he smirked sheepishly, "I prefer a Melange."

The coffee of elderly widows with lap dogs - Helen smiled and ordered it for him, observing her subject surreptitiously as she did so. He seemed steady, but clearly this turn of events was unexpected – his hesitant expression a mark of his uncertainty about being here. It was impossible to say, however, whether the sheepishness came from speaking to _her_ specifically, or anyone. Without Freud around - and she had never seen him without Sigmund in tow - Löwy became suddenly, quite furtive, almost shy. Still he half-smiled towards her, and finally relaxed enough to put his hat onto his lap instead of holding it.

Clearing his throat after the waiter had left them he addressed her directly, "I must admit Dr Max, when you first introduced yourself I had you pegged as another impressionable student all set on hero-worshiping Sigmund." He chuckled, glancing down self-consciously, "Rather resented the interruption in fact."

Helen couldn't show the rising fear that everything he said was calculated to throw her off, so she smiled, "I'm sorry Professor, I had no intention of interrupting at first, but I just couldn't pass on an opportunity like that. Not after Freud's work had had such an impact on me. I was rather surprised to be invited to your table - does he often do that?"

"Ahuh," he smiled, more at ease, "only very occasionally. Freud is something of a collector of people, much as he collects objects d'art really - I'm sure he could analyse that behaviour all day."

"He probably already has," Helen cheered, sipping on her tea as Löwy's coffee arrived.

"But to what do I owe this unexpected delight?" he asked.

The waiter left them and Magnus continued to project friendliness like a night-light, "It's just a little curiosity really," she started quickly, before he could raise his defences. "When you were talking the other day about Anubis, it got me thinking whether you had looked into the origins of the animal-gods. Isn't it odd that out of all the ancient cultures, a civilisation as advanced as Egypt held onto animalistic totems for all that time? I just wondered whether it was unique to them."

Löwy took it all in for a moment, a little blindsided by her apparent interest in his work, but you could see the effect that interest was having on him - the slow but sure urge to talk about it, to share his enthusiasm. "Well by the end of their civilisation, yes, they were unusual - but don't forget how long the Egyptian culture continued. At their height the whole of Mesopotamia at least shared this strange array of animalistic gods - part bird, part lion, part snake…"

"But these kinds of creatures are all killed in Greco-Roman narratives - they're the monsters, something to be feared."

"Yes, a killing of the old guard. I for one am quite fond of the theory that the Greek legend of the Titans, for instance, represents the Hellenic culture conquering the indigenous peoples of the Baltic. Freud of course, sees far more personal narratives woven into these communal myths."

She nodded, pleased that he was ingratiating himself in her discussion without any hesitation, "Yes. Well, power speaks on many levels…" she paused, hoping her meandering line of questioning about his research might get him to open up, "I suppose that's why the Pharaohs and Emperors were all so eager to be related to Gods, or even monsters - anything to give them greater legitimacy." She smirked, lowered eyes casting him a side glance, "Like the Church pretending to be Rome."

He considered her carefully, as though willing her playfulness to drop, the real reason to come out - or so she thought. Then he seemed conflicted, as if there _was _something he wanted to say, but wasn't sure about it. He stared pensively at his coffee for a moment, then to her amazement he spoke with an unusual note of sincerity; "Or trying to prove that _Rome _wasn't as powerful as they had thought."

Helen considered him but said nothing more. He was fighting with his own self, internally debating whether to divest information, which could only be good for her… surely? Just give him a moment and he would break of his own accord.

"The Christians wrote some interesting things about the Romans, before Constantine," he added, eying her carefully as he gradually took the top off his melange with the spoon pinched between his fingers.

"_Before_ Constantine..."

"Then certain similarities in the Christians' accounts… evaporate for a while."

"I'm sorry Professor, I'm not sure I understand."

There was silence for a moment, "They wrote these rather unusual accounts, slanderous, but there was something a little more to it I think."

Helen's eyes narrowed in confusion, almost sure that this was important but… the _how _was a mystery, "What did they say?"

"The Christians called them enslavers of man, demons with sharp smiles and long claws," there was something in the way he said it, holding her gaze, as if willing her to take this seriously, but Helen already was, "eyes and voices that descended into the pits of hell at will - they claimed they were sorcerers, false prophets, who drank human blood for sustenance and preyed upon the weak."

"Why is that so unusual Professor?" Helen tried to sound neutral but her excitement probably showed in her voice at the blatant description of vampires, "Sounds to me like any ferocious preacher's rhetoric."

"I thought so too…" he hesitated, as if he'd already said too much.

Helen leaned in, "But...?"

"But?"

"What made you think there was more to it?" she smiled, coaxingly, drawn into the thread like a spider feeling a vibration on its web.

He looked her dead in the eye, "It's just a mad theory Dr Max, but… I suspect, from the research I did that... It may be more literal than it seems."

There was a challenge in his eye - to baulk, to reveal her reasons for asking? Helen had no intention of doing either.

"Earlier this week," she started, visibly collecting herself as though preparing for a rebuke, "I was visiting hospitals for unusual admissions… I'm thinking of writing freelance articles detailing the more curious cases," she smiled, watching to see how he would react. "One of these cases, I might not have believed had I not _seen_. The patient had fits," she explained, lowering her voice enough not to be overheard at the next table but not so low as to raise suspicion, "and when he did, his skin became as hard as stone. The needle they attempted to inject him with? Snapped in half," Löwy's face was a revelation - he knew about abnormals alright, he was just shocked that _she _did too; "I highly doubt Professor that any theories you have about our ancestors would be as strange as what I've already seen with my own two eyes."

He almost looked relieved to hear it, "So… when I say the descriptions were rather more detailed, and rather more literal than I described - you might understand my conclusion." Löwy started eagerly, "That the leaders of ancient Rome were a race that might have lived among us, but weren't entirely... human."

"You mean, they were…" how could she lead him into thinking she didn't already know precisely what they were, "gods?"

"No," he smiled, "no, not quite. The early Christians called them, _sanguine vampiris_."

She widened her eyes in false surprise, "Vampiris, as in-"

"Vampires. Yes. I know, it predates any mention of the word in German, Hungarian or even Romanian…" his excitement was palpable, "I only made that connection a few weeks ago - I'm afraid I do not read romance novels."

"And the _Christians _called them that?"

"Yes," the whispered yes was almost reverent.

"Then where did you find this? ...Nicolaus… my fiancé," she explained at the confusion on his face, "has never spoken of anything of the like and he's translating Latin every which-way. Surely we would have heard about an entire race of... _vampires_?"

"I found the papers whilst I was working in _Rome _Dr Max. The Vatican, it has literally thousands of descriptions like this and has chosen to _censor _them, perhaps for hundreds of years. All mention of these beings in terms of their most unusual qualities have been destroyed or removed, until we all started believing they were fantasies - even" he pointed a finger as he explained, "the Papacy themselves."

Helen shook her head, as if she were still trying to digest this revelation, all the while concocting a way to get at his interest in the Spear. "What convinced _you _that it wasn't just propaganda? That it _was _real?"

He raised an eyebrow and leaned in, "I too have… come across the sort of impossible creature you described. In Rome, in fact, and I thought, well, if I can find someone capable of _walking through walls_…"

"Sanguine Vampiris wasn't such a stretch for the imagination?"

He nodded, "And then," he smiled vividly, "I discovered there may even be _proof_."

"Proof?"

Now he really did keep himself low and close, speaking quietly enough not to be overheard, "An artefact said to date to Christ's crucifixion. I found manuscripts claiming that far from being the actual spear to pierce Christ's side, the Holy Lance was in fact a much older weapon belonging to these creatures." There was nothing guarded about Löwy now, his entire body sung with the power of his discovery - hands open palmed against the table, the sun glancing off of his tri-crowned signet ring and into the corner of his round glasses. "Well, I thought, if I could just _see _the artefact, there might be some clue in its inscriptions as to whether all this was as true as I _believed _it was."

She was too stunned for words - Löwy was not behaving like a man receiving government funding on the basis of his _unusual theories_… he was too enthusiastic for that, too keen on the prospect of another interested listener to confide in.

"And was there?" She asked eagerly, catching her own extended pause and hastily correcting it.

"Well, that's the thing - they've never let me near the damn thing. I think the Church got wind of my intentions, cut me off."

Helen frowned despite herself - he had _never seen_ the spear? "The other day you said a Professor... Hauler was it? Set you straight on a few things about the Spear. Do you think it was him?"

The archaeologist gave it some consideration before answering, sipping on his melange some more, "Probably. Now that I think about it… I only met him once or twice. He's an excellent philologist. At the time I was just happy that he was so interested in what I had found – it certainly wasn't something I had expected in someone so… _serious_. But, goodness, he really is the most disagreeable person. It wouldn't shock me if he had smelt out a discovery worth his department's weight in gold and thought it best to keep the mad archaeologist away from it," he smiled sadly, "save all the glory for himself. Just as well that I exercised a little professional caution and neglected to tell him half of what I'd found."

All of Helen's presumptions fell like a house of cards. She had been right about something - Löwy knew about the spear, he knew about abnormals, and even vampires - but apart from putting the enemy on the scent his account only threw suspicion right back onto Hauler and his team. She could verify his story - get Nikola to find out who had applied to see the spear and who had succeeded - but she was oddly inclined to take Löwy at his word.

Staring at him now, as if he might give away some indication that this was all lies to draw her in - all Helen could see was a painfully clear honesty. His dislike of her, his caginess among the psychoanalysts could well have been the natural reserve at an outsider joining their table, someone who could not be trusted with their more outlandish theories and discoveries. With one short, only slightly fabricated tale, Helen had effectively made herself his worthy confidant, as opposed to another hero-worshiping pretty face sucked into his friend's orbit.

Could it be that simple?

"What I will say for old Hauler though," Löwy interrupted her train of thought, finishing up his coffee, "He managed to secure my certainty that we know so very little about the _truth _of our ancient past."

If he hadn't told Hauler the half of what he knew, who _had _he told? Helen suddenly thought. She was about to ask, when Löwy's eyes jumped into his hairline at the sight of the time on his watch.

"Oh goodness, forgive me Dr Max, I should be starting a seminar in five minutes," he smiled warmly as he stood, the same way he smiled at Freud, "Perhaps we can talk again some other time," he started to look a little shy, "I... enjoyed our discussion."

Helen smiled at the sincerity oozing from his eyes, looking briefly at the cup on the table and back, somehow swimming in _more _questions than she had before, "I would like that Löwy."

He nodded, "Thank you… for the coffee. Next time it's on me."

He left before she could respond, leaving Helen staring dumbly at the empty Melange cup across from her. Next time? She would have to make sure there _was_ a next time - if he'd been the reason they'd discovered the spear and its potential, even unwittingly, she needed to know who knew what - and soon.

* * *

**Author's Note**: So… the plot thickens. Bwahahaha-ehem.

Apologies last time for not disclaiming my defamation of Herr Frauwallner's character – he is based on a real Austrian academic, and I'm sure in real life he never did anything so naughty as hiding from conscription. (It was only when I read Sparky's outrage at this that I realised I should probably clarify that that part was purely my own imaginings!) Some of the characters Helen was hunting for in the café were real - Colonel von Bolfras and Count Burián were both members of the Austo-Hungarian government in WW1 and though Herr Spitzmuller wasn't actually his clerk he was a real person in the Austrian government of the time, though I have no idea who he was or what he did. :) (Thank you German wiki)

Also I have no idea whether fictional Löwy and real Löwy share the same opinions on all this stuff… I did not check. :)

There are some nice little Sanctuary Easter eggs in this one for the sharp of eye and obsessed of mind, I will be ecstatic if anyone finds them.

**JanSuch **– lol, is this a case of me not writing enough 1917-ness in? :)

**R.J.** – I think I missed your comment last time – glad you're enjoying this and hope you continue to do so!

**Next time**: Helen and Tesla go abnormal hunting… :D


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